


Ready Set Hut

by Neyasochi



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Football, Alternate Universe - High School, American Football, Anal Sex, Bottom Keith (Voltron), Bottom Shiro (Voltron), Fluff, Football Captain Shiro (Voltron), M/M, Minor Adam/Shiro (Voltron), POV Keith (Voltron), Pining Keith (Voltron), Size Difference, Slow-ish burn, Top Keith (Voltron), Top Shiro (Voltron), light Eyeshield 21 influence, sheith in football pants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2019-12-19
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:28:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 39,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21699265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neyasochi/pseuds/Neyasochi
Summary: They cross paths while Keith’s fleeing the scene of a one-sided fight, tearing his way across a field at a breakneck pace with knuckles still smarting from clocking some bullying upperclassman who’d cornered him behind the gym.And all Shiro can think about for days after is how desperately he needs the brawling boy with the golden legs to join his football team.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 243
Kudos: 579





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A re-writing of my twitter thread au, [original can be found here](https://twitter.com/neyasochi/status/1169827303452340227)
> 
> This is rated for upcoming chapters! I'll be updating the tags, too.  
> In this AU, Shiro and Keith are ~3 years apart. I actually don't know a lot about football so pls be gentle!

It takes all of three days for Keith to get tangled up in a fight.

It’s a fresh school year, complete with a fresh start with a new foster family and fresh faces to sneer at him in the back of class. The comments about his jaggedly self-cut hair and cheap, worn-through shoes he can handle; the snide questions about being an orphan and spending time in juvie, he can’t.

Keith had long ago learned that quietly enduring mistreatment got him nothing and nowhere— better to have a reputation for being a hothead with a smart right hook than one for being a docile target. So the first time one of his new school’s bullies corners him behind the gym, running his mouth about putting Keith in his place, Keith throws a suckerpunch that doubles him over and then crosses hard to send his skull ringing, too.

From the ground, the bully curls and groans and pathetically curses him through a stinging jaw. Keith only half pays attention, far more concerned with the faint sound of approaching voices— two teachers chatting about the newly remodeled cafeteria, it sounds like, a little louder and clearer by the second.

With one last little glare at the asshole who’d tried to push him around, Keith spins on his heel and bolts. He can’t afford to be caught red-handed and hauled to the administration’s offices. Not this early in the school year, at least. Hopefully shame and smarting pride will keep the bully he’d bowled over from admitting that a classmate half his size had throttled him.

All Keith worries about for the moment is putting distance between himself and the scene of the ass-kicking. And it’s easy, slipping into a fleeting stride and letting quick footfalls carry him away. He’d loved to run long before it became essential to making quick getaways, whether it was dashing in circles around his dad as he worked on his truck or escaping whatever foster home he was staying in for a couple hours of solitude.

This time, though, it isn’t a swift but aimless run he can simply lose himself in. Keith moves with sharp, immediate purpose, sprinting from the gym and skirting around the nearby field, vaulting a waist-high chain link fence along the way. He glances backward as he bounds up a tall set of concrete stairs that leads to some sport clubhouse behind the practice field, satisfied to see no one in pursuit, no one flagging him down, no one even looking his way.

But as he crests the top of the stairs, Keith turns back around and is met with an imposing column of _person_ that sends him nimbly, reflexively side-stepping without breaking his stride.

For half a heartbeat, time seems to hold as they take stock of each other, briefly face-to-face as Keith darts past. Or face-to-chest, more accurately. Keith has to tip his chin up to get a good look at the upperclassman’s sharply square jaw, widened eyes framed by distractingly thick lashes, and a flop of dark hair plastered to his brow. A set of full lips part in a soft gasp, surprise written all over his handsome face as a scrawny sophomore dances right past him.

And then Keith is gone, out of sight and hopefully out of mind.

* * *

No one reprimands Keith the next day. No one gives him a wider berth than usual. The overconfident bully he’d decked walks the halls with an ugly bruise under his cheek, but as far as Keith can tell, he’s spinning a different story on how he got it; he fumes when Keith meets his stare, resentment simmering behind beady eyes, but nothing more comes of it.

The guy from the top of the stairs, though? Keith sees him _everywhere._ In the cafeteria, waving a hand like he wants to offer a place to sit. At the vending machine, making a beeline toward him, all smiles. In the library, hovering one aisle over, a book in his hand and a look on his face like he wants to talk.

Each time, Keith turns and slinks away before anything can come of it. It’s easy to lose his tall, handsome shadow in the crowd of other students, winding down hallways and racing up stairwells to some other floor.

Until one afternoon when Keith is sitting on one of the picnic tables out in the courtyard, a sad ham and cheese sandwich half-eaten in his hands. Someone big and broad suddenly settles down beside him, somehow swift and silent enough to have gotten in close without Keith’s noticing. They thrust a crinkly plastic bag of spicy trail mix and a pack of Red Hots out like a peace offering, all too tempting when his current lunch is so miserable.

Slowly, Keith lifts his gaze and finds it’s the same pretty upperclassman who’s been trailing after him all week.

“I, uh, noticed that you like these,” he says, offering the treats to Keith again, more pointedly. The timbre of his voice soft and unduly soothing, worlds apart from what Keith had expected him to sound like. “I thought that maybe if you had something to snack on, you’d listen to my spiel for a few minutes.”

“Depends,” Keith slowly, skeptically answers, eyeing him and the snacks in turn. Gingerly, he plucks them from the upperclassman’s hands, sets aside the remains of his sandwich, and pops the bag of trail mix open. “What’s your spiel about?”

“You,” he answers, a cheek dimpling slightly as he smiles. “And how impressed I was the other day, watching you.”

Keith chews through the nervous tightening of his jaw, wondering what he’s getting at. Some kind of blackmail, maybe, for punching that asshole? Or interest in having Keith handle someone else for him the same way? He looks too clean-cut to brawl anyone himself, even if he clearly has the strength for it. “How much did you see?”

“Well, I saw you clock the jerk from my homeroom, which was pretty impressive on its own,” he says, smiling wryly. “And then I watched you run about fifty yards, leap a fence, and race uphill in… ten seconds, maybe? Less? I’ve never seen anything like it. Did you run track at your last school? Are you going out for track here?”

“No. And no.” Obviously. As if any school team would want _him,_ a walking disciplinary issue waiting to happen. “I’m not much of a team player.”

There’s a quiet lull in response to that. Disarmingly pretty eyes study Keith with an intensity that catches him by surprise— and they’re silvery grey, he notices this time— but his smile remains warm and gentle through it. “I’m Shiro, by the way.”

Keith stares down at the hand that’s offered to him, open and broad and square-palmed. He weighs the snacks currently sitting in his lap and Shiro’s kind, dimpled smile against all the times that mistrust has spared him disappointment. And then, with a huff and a little hitch of hesitation, he takes Shiro’s hand and gives it the briefest of shakes.

It’s not unpleasant. Palm-to-palm, Shiro’s hand dwarfs his own, swallowing it up with ease. And it’s warm, if a little rough in places, and— 

And then it’s over.

“Keith,” he introduces, awkwardly angling himself a few degrees toward Shiro.

Shiro brightens at the little show of acceptance and happily scoots closer, apparently reassured that Keith won’t be fleeing out of sight this time around. “You’re a phenomenal runner, Keith. Is it something you like to do?”

Keith grows flustered where he sits, unused to compliments and personal questions that aren’t aimed at belittling him. Having Shiro so near surely doesn’t help either, all his charm and friendliness and thoughtful attention fixed on Keith like a spotlight.

Tentatively, with plenty of pauses to chew while he assembles his thoughts and gathers up the right words to express himself, Keith answers. And when Shiro responds with a volley of new questions, all posed with the same eager, thoughtful interest, Keith finds himself answering those, too.

* * *

The next day, Shiro greets him in the hall after first period, gives him a bag of beef jerky just before lunch, and sits down at his desolate table in the library during study hall. 

The rest of the student body takes note, whispers burbling around them each time Shiro happily flocks to his side. People start looking at Keith differently— skeptically, wonderingly— as if trying to puzzle out whatever it is that Shiro sees in him.

Keith struggles to do the same. He’s pieced together enough about Shiro now to know that he’s in a league apart, the star football team captain with stellar grades and a beaming personality to match. Their orbits should never have intersected at all, really, but Shiro keeps circling back to him like he’s something special. Someone worth listening to. Someone worth knowing.

Keith doesn’t say much unless he’s prompted, unused to having anyone to hold conversations with. His long pauses and awkward lapses into silence don’t deter Shiro in the slightest, though.

Shiro fills the gaps, somehow managing to make Keith feel like he’s part of the back-and-forth even when most of the talk is one-sided. He gives Keith tips on classes and teachers and how to stay on the principal’s good side. They compare their favorite snacks and hobbies. And, with a proud smile that tempts Keith into smiling, too, Shiro tells him all about his football team— the afterschool practices and rivalry games, the workout sessions, the early morning runs he enjoys before the sun has even peeked over the horizon.

His passion for his team and his sport inspires, even if Keith doesn’t know the first thing about football. Just listening to Shiro talk kick-offs and national championships makes something longing spark through Keith, wishing he had anything meaningful in his life to be half as excited about. Something to chase, the way Shiro does. Something to share with him, so they could be excited about it together.

It’s not possible, though. Not in any actual sense, given how far behind Keith lags in everything, how many strikes sit on his record, how his blunt reservedness and prickly disposition turn everyone away.

Everyone but Shiro— so far, anyway.

* * *

Just over a week out from the first game of the season, Shiro finds him sitting in one of his usual spots for lunch, cross-legged against a courtyard wall with a sketchbook open in his lap. He drops down and takes a seat beside Keith, sighing as he gets comfortable. For a while, they simply sit in a drawn, companionable silence.

And then Shiro breaks it.

“Keith, I know you said you’re not much of a team player, but I don’t think that’s true at all. I think you’d shine with the right people, on the right team,” he says all at once, like they’re words he’s been mulling over for a while. “And I’d— I’d like you to be on mine, if you’re interested.”

Keith’s pencil stops moving mid-stroke. He openly stares at Shiro, half-convinced he must’ve lapsed into a daydream and misheard every word. Shiro _has_ to be joking. Or mistaken. “I… I don’t know anything about football.”

“With legs like those? You don’t have to,” Shiro says, tone teasing in a way that makes Keith feel admired rather than ridiculed. Everything about him reads sincere, from his smile to the hopeful little tilt of his head to the softness in his eyes, unfathomable as it is. “I can teach you everything you’d need to know about the sport. It’s _you_ that’ll make the difference.”

 _Him._ Right. Small and scrawny and ill-tempered, shunted aside by teachers and fellow students alike. Keith’s skepticism must be writ plain across his face, because Shiro sighs and changes course, looking the faintest bit exasperated. Keith watches as he starts rummaging through his backpack, pushing aside a calculus book and pages of neat notes to find a slightly smushed bag of sour worms.

It’s an obvious bribe. Keith takes it, clutches the candy close, and waits for whatever Shiro plans to ask in return.

“I don’t think you realize just how amazing you are, Keith. Or how much potential you have.” Shiro shakes his head, his pretty eyes squinting tight under a deeply knitted brow. When he meets Keith’s gaze again, it’s with a gentle, hopeful plea. “Let me time you on the field, just once, and you can decide what you want to do after.”

Or Keith could deny him right now. He could push Shiro away so forcefully that he’d never look Keith’s way again; he could shrink back in on himself, safe behind a hard-shelled exterior that keeps everyone away. It’d be easy. _So_ easy. The kind of thing he’s done a dozen times before, at last turning the lonely disjointedness he’d felt ever since his father died into a useful tool.

Keith swallows. He’s fast, admittedly— that much he has confidence in. But being able to outrun and outmaneuver lugheaded bullies in a schoolyard is a far cry from what Shiro is asking. It’s been forever since anyone’s expected anything good out of him, and Shiro’s hopes are so high that Keith is certain he’ll fall miserably short.

“Yeah. Whatever. I’ll do it, once,” he croaks anyway, palms sweaty where they cup around the bag of sour worms. 

* * *

Keith bends low at the fifty-yard line, right where Shiro told him to set up. The toe of his right sneaker just kisses the white paint atop green grass; the fingertips of one hand rest light on the field. He breathes out slow, thoughts jumping back and forth as he worries whether his speed will be enough to impress Shiro a second time.

A whistle sounds from downfield and Keith’s coiled legs spring him forward, pent-up kinetic energy finally cutting loose. For however long it takes for his legs to send him to the ten-yard line, his thoughts fall silent. He focuses only on the length of every stride, the flood of air in his lungs, the quick staccato of his footfalls.

He blitzes by Shiro and then slows to a bounding lope, almost reluctant to see what Shiro thinks of him this time around. But as he turns, Keith finds him staring down at the stopwatch in his hand with a crooked smile, utterly amazed.

“Four-point-two, Keith! Holy shit, you did forty yards in four-point-two seconds!”

Keith has no idea how to react when Shiro bounces over to wave the stopwatch in front of his face, making sure Keith can see the _00:04:20_ blinking across its screen. “Uh, is that good?”

“Keith, this is what the pros are running,” Shiro crows, grabbing hold of Keith’s slim shoulders in his excitement. “You tied my personal best! On your first try! I mean, I knew you’d run it under five seconds for sure, but _wow._ How has no one scouted you before? How did you fly under the radar so long?”

Keith has no idea what Shiro’s talking about, really, but the shower of praise coupled with the warm, exuberant touch along his shoulders is nicer than he’d ever have anticipated. Heat blankets his skin, burning brighter wherever Shiro’s hands slide as he spins them around in a lazy circle, still marveling at Keith’s speed; he feels like he’s glowing, radiant with the excitement he’s reflecting back to Shiro.

“You could be my running back,” Shiro says, breathless. His grey eyes sparkle when the afternoon sun hits them just right, those cool silver highlights turning warm. “You’re perfect for it, Keith. I’ll train you myself.”

“I’ll do it,” Keith answers without another thought, utterly confused and just as lost for breath. There’s something captivating and contagious about Shiro’s bright-eyed enthusiasm, and the way it feels when he touches Keith isn’t half bad, either. “But first you have to tell me what a running back is.”

* * *

Shiro is endlessly patient and kind as he brings Keith up to speed in the weeks leading up to their first game, painstakingly explaining the sport, the rules, the plays. It’s yet another added responsibility on top of a schedule already packed with mock exams and group study sessions, but he always manages to squeeze in time for whatever Keith needs.

On a rainy day, Shiro even coaxes Keith into joining his usual table in the cafeteria rather than retreating into the library. It’s crowded with Shiro’s friends and teammates, all of whom go a little wide-eyed as he introduces Keith and urges everyone to make room for the both of them. They all scoot accordingly, though, and the chatter is friendly, if a little overwhelming.

Shiro’s nearness helps. Tucked close against his side, Keith almost feels impervious— even to the surly little looks Shiro’s boyfriend shoots across the table at him, apparently miffed at Keith monopolizing Shiro’s attention.

“So, a quarterback like me relies on a running back to skirt past the defense and carry the ball downfield,” Shiro says, picking up right where he’d last left off in his mutli-day explanation of football and all its working parts. Unprompted, he starts lifting bits of food from his generously proportioned lunchbox— stuffed with grilled salmon, fresh vegetables, and slices of sesame-flecked beef— and leaving them on Keith’s sparse lunch tray, supplementing the limp french fries and sad, lumpy chicken nuggets the cafeteria is serving.

Keith’s stomach growls at the sight, painfully reminded of how long it’s been since he last had a _good_ home-cooked meal.

“My aunt made it,” Shiro grins as Keith’s first bite practically makes him swoon. “Wait til you try her fried chicken. I’ll have to ask if she can make it sometime this week.”

“You don’t have to,” Keith says, though he honestly wishes he could eat everything in Shiro’s lunchbox and then lick it clean, too. He polishes off the meat and vegetables on his plate in under a minute; the french fries that follow taste like disappointment.

“We’re going to be doing a lot of workouts, and practice can get pretty intense, too,” Shiro says, piling a little more beef onto Keith’s plate. “You could probably use more protein than whatever’s in those chicken nuggets, honestly.”

Keith can’t help but crack a slight smile. “Thanks, Shiro.” 

“Anytime.” Shiro smiles around a mouthful of his lunch. “Oh, and technically, you can have _two_ running backs on an offensive line,” he resumes, as if just remembering he still has more to explain. “A halfback and a fullback. If we ran with two, you’d be the halfback. That’s not as common these days, though. There’s usually just the one running back, the faster the better, and you’re going to be _amazing_ at it, Keith.

The rest of the team isn’t as certain. When Shiro presents Keith to the offensive line that afternoon, skeptical murmurs ripple through his new teammates. ‘ _Why pick someone who’s never even played before?’_ is one comment Keith hears. ‘ _Isn’t he already a sophomore anyway?’_ and ‘ _If he’s that good, why hasn’t anyone heard of him?’_ are others.

Shiro quiets them with an uncharacteristically severe look, his powerful jaw clenched tight, and a live demonstration of Keith’s speed.

After running another forty-yard dash in a flat four-point-two seconds, Keith doesn’t hear another disparaging peep out of the offensive linemen. Not until Adam steps forward, at least, his arms crossed and his expression settled into something firmly displeased behind his glasses.

“We already have a decent running back,” he says to Shiro, nodding toward a slim brunette beside him. “Our first game is next Friday, Shiro. Why the hell are you bringing on some pipsqueak delinquent who doesn’t know a field goal from an onside kick so close to the start of the season? For some _gut feeling_? Really?”

There it is. _That’s_ what Keith had been waiting for. Adam’s disdainful words echo his own private doubts and worries, for all Shiro had tried to assure him that he’d excel if he just gave the sport a chance.

Just ahead of him, Shiro’s posture shifts and tenses. His chest swells as he pulls in a deep breath through his nose, his already considerable height drawn up another taut inch.

“Be nice, Adam,” Shiro warns, jaw barely moving. He glares at Adam even as he waves for Keith to join him, a comforting hand laid on his narrow shoulders as soon as he’s in range. “We support our teammates, remember? And Keith is doing me a favor being here. Having him as a running back is going to make us stronger as an offense and— provided you don’t run him off first— Keith is going to shatter every record I’ve set. If not this season, then the next.”

Adam scoffs, turns, and strides from the field alone. Shiro relaxes again, though with a resignation that leaves his shoulders slumped and his expression somber. With a wave, he dismisses everyone but Keith.

“Don’t worry about him,” Shiro says as they walk side-by-side up toward the storage and supply building just beyond the locker room. “He didn’t get into his first choice school and he’s been in a sour mood ever since. You’re gonna be great, okay? The coach already agreed that Griffin is a better fit as a wide receiver and signed off on your joining us.”

“Because you vouched for me,” Keith murmurs back, the mounting pressure to live up to Shiro’s expectations like a yoke around his shoulders. It goes beyond just letting Shiro down now— it’s about embarrassing him in front of everyone he’s bargained with to bring Keith to this point, too. 

Shiro turns and smiles at Keith, a shade dimmer than his usual cheer. “Because you’re the only running back I want on the field with me, Keith.”

Something in Keith’s chest blooms with unexpected warmth despite his apprehensions, pushing back all the anxieties encroaching on his thoughts. There’s no reason for Shiro to have this much faith in him not to screw everything up, intentionally or no, but Keith’s heartened by it anyway.

Inside the small storage building sit massive pieces of field equipment and shelves stacked high with uniforms and bulky Riddell-branded padding. Shiro sizes him up and starts picking out items from various shelves, humming softly as he sifts through black and red jerseys.

Keith stands uncertainly off to one side, watching Shiro dart around to assemble his uniform— until something on the far wall catches his eye. He wanders away from Shiro and strolls down a length of shelves lined in red and black helmets, fingertips trailing over their polished curves and the wiry, gold-colored face masks attached. 

One helmet in particular stands out, though, stark among all the rest. Keith picks it up and draws it close, staring at his own reflection in the dark-tinted visor affixed to the face mask.

“You like that one?” Shiro asks over his shoulder, apologizing profusely when Keith jumps and nearly sends the helmet clattering to the poured concrete floor. “You know, tinted visors like this were actually banned until a couple of years ago. I think this one’s been sitting here since I was a freshman.”

Shiro sets everything else aside and instead helps Keith try his helmet on for the first time. Big hands brace on either side of Keith’s head as he gently twists and tugs until it’s positioned just right. After, Shiro gives the top of the helmet a friendly, parting thump.

The visor tints everything dark and moody; the helmet sits snug around Keith ears, dampening the sound of voices outside and nearby traffic. Keith is faintly reminded of all the times he’d used his dad’s motorcycle helmet to play astronaut around the house, top-heavy as he alternated between careening at top speed and imitating the slow, zero-g steps of a moonwalk.

There’s no mirror in the storage room, so Keith gauges how he looks by Shiro’s smile— warm, gentle, radiating approval. Something buried deep around his solar plexus flutters and squirms, delighted with the fond attention.

“Yeah,” he says, voice softly cracking. “I like it.”

“Good.” Shiro claps him on the back and starts piling his arms with padding and his new uniform colors. “I think it gives you a little intimidation factor. Makes you harder to read.” His smile quirks to one side. “It suits you, honestly.”

Keith thinks Shiro might be right.

* * *

The first game is a thundering rush, Keith’s pulse pounding in time with the stomping in the stands.

It’s very nearly overwhelming, but Shiro hovers close as they take the field and bunch along the sideline, a hand on Keith’s blocky shoulder padding to ground him. He smiles through the wire gridding of his face mask and leans in close, making himself heard over the announcer blaring over the football field’s speakers. “Nervous?”

Keith nods, his mouth feeling cottony dry. The glare of the field’s overhead lights makes him glad for his visor, but there’s no tempering the electric feel in the air or the daunting press of dozens of hulking figures around him. Keith’s never felt more aware of how skinny and stunted he is, so easily lost among teammates clad in bulky shoulder pads. Even the majority of the freshmen stand a head taller than him; Keith’s jersey, emblazoned with _21_ under his surname, is probably the smallest on the team.

But Shiro insists that his small stature is part of his advantage. He says it’ll make him easy to underestimate and hard to catch.

Keith sure hopes so.

With a trembling, short-of-breath nervousness, he follows Shiro onto the field when it’s time, the calls from their coach ringing loud in his ears. Unintelligible, almost. Unreal, everything around him blurring into a cacophony of sight and sound.

Keith shoots a glance toward Shiro as he takes his place on the field for the first time, desperate for some last scrap of reassurance, and instead finds himself staring at the intimidating silhouette the quarterback cuts, all clad in black and trimmed in red. His forearms flex as he adjusts his gloves, every inch of him tall and lean and unsmiling. And even as Shiro bends low to start the play, his stare remains fixed dead ahead, boring into the opposing defensive line— or perhaps through them, already set on the goal line.

Keith spurs into motion at Shiro’s call of _“Ready, set, hut!”,_ legs coiled tight under him as he cuts sideways. He still can’t quite fathom the belief Shiro has in him, even as the football’s thrust into his arms in the first play and the look on Shiro’s eyes tells him to _run._

With the ball cradled tight to his chest, Keith bolts straight past the defensive linemen that have eyes only for Shiro. His thighs burn at the sudden snap of exertion, but it’s a relief to finally act; the nervous energy that’s been building inside him all afternoon burns off as he sprints downfield, leaving him clear-headed again. In a flash of mere seconds, Keith clears twenty yards, then forty, then sixty, and by the time the opposing team starts to give chase, it’s far too late.

He scores a touchdown— his _first_ touchdown— within the first minute of the first quarter. And afterward, he’s not quite sure what to do with himself.

Keith stands in the endzone with the ball still cradled in the nook of his bent arm, narrow chest heaving. Everyone on the field and in the stands seems just as surprised as he is, taken aback by the sudden ferocity of such an early score. After a split second delay, the cheers kick up into a full-bodied roar as the score on the board ticks up to six. A few of his teammates bounce excitedly on his behalf; others, like Adam, simply stand and stare.

The only person who doesn’t seem surprised in the least is Shiro. He barrels toward Keith at a full tilt run, barely slowing as he scoops him off the ground. 

Keith breaks into surprised, thrilled laughter as he’s swept up in Shiro’s arms, the toes of his cleats dangling in air. It’s Shiro’s fault— his giddiness is infectious, too joyful as he swings Keith side to side and their helmets knock playfully in all the jostling. Even after he gently lowers Keith to the turf and tugs him along to reset, that same rush of bubbling excitement floats in the pit of Keith’s stomach.

He wants to do it again. Immediately. 

That first touchdown celebration is a thrill he could ride forever— proving everyone else wrong and vindicating Shiro to the tune of the crowd’s cheers. Feeling Shiro’s arms around him, strong and gentle. Hearing him laugh, breathlessly winded but too delighted to help himself. Seeing him smile.

But it’s harder to pull off now that the defensive line knows he’s a threat.

On the next attempt, Keith only makes it forty yards before a lineman twice as wide and three times heavier barrels him down to the field. The weight crushes him into the turf at an uncomfortable angle, an elbow or knee buried into the small of his back hard enough to leave a deep bruise. Through it, he clings to the ball like just Shiro taught him to, fingers curling tighter even as the front of his helmet is pushed into the earth, grass tickling at his nose.

Just as Keith feels like his lungs are being flattened, the pressure finally recedes. It stings when he stands, but Keith’s long since grown used to rising up again after taking a pummeling. That Shiro shoulders his way through the ring of opposing players to check on him doesn’t hurt, either.

Their next touchdown comes as Shiro throws a long, arcing pass to Adam, who leaps high to catch it and scramble over the goal line. The one after is Keith again, legs aching as he pushes himself into the endzone just before he can be tackled. And in one heart-stopping run, Shiro carries the ball to the goal himself, weaving tight through the defensive line and bringing the crowd to its feet as he deftly shrugs off the linemen trying to bring him down.

The fourth quarter closes with a field goal sent soaring through the goalpost, widening the margin of their win by another three points. All order breaks down as the whole team bleeds onto the field from the sideline, celebrating together. Even Keith gets swept into it, congratulated by a dozen teammates he barely knows with gentle taps of his helmet and awed praise for his speed.

But amid all the whooping and chanting and cheering, Keith really only cares to hear from one person.

“You did great out there, Keith,” Shiro says after the alma mater ends and they’re left to stagger their way back to the locker rooms to change, an arm slung heavy around Keith’s slim shoulders. “It’s hard to believe that was your first game! I’d hand the ball off to you and you were _gone._ Absolutely amazing. You took some hard hits and got right back up, too. I know that isn’t easy.”

Under the drape of Shiro’s arm and the showering of praise, Keith glows.

“And the look on Adam’s face after that first touchdown? I’m petty enough to admit it— absolutely _priceless_ ,” Shiro whispers near his ear, laughing light and breathy. He ruffles a hand through Keith’s sweat-damp hair and hugs him close. “I’m proud of you.”

He says it after the next game, too. And the next. 

Even when Keith fumbles or gets flagged for snapping back at the ref, Shiro balances every critique and correction with a gentle reminder that he cares about Keith all the same. No lecturing, no threats of punishment, no boot from the team for making trouble— not even when Keith knows it’d be well-deserved. Shiro is patient with him in all things, including giving pointers on how to temper his impulsivity.

“You’re lucky you have a cool team captain to show you the ropes,” Shiro teases as they cool down after one of their early morning weekend runs, their excess energy burnt off and a calmed relaxation settling in. One grey eye squints open to catch Keith staring; Shiro smiles to himself as he closes it and returns to a loosely meditative pose. “I had to figure out how to keep myself in check all on my own.”

“You?” Keith asks, cheeks still warm. He can’t help but keep staring, absently drinking in the long fan of Shiro’s dark lashes, the way the midmorning light brings a shine to his damp skin, every rise and fall of the broad chest underneath that white tank top. “Hard to imagine you ever made any kind of trouble.”

Without breaking his relaxed focus or opening his eyes, Shiro shrugs a shoulder. The corner of his mouth curls, cheek dimpling as his smile grows. “Keith, _please_ mention that to my aunt at the next game. She could use the laugh.”

That’s as much as Shiro will say about his lightly checkered past, though. Keith has to piece together the rest from whispers from seniors and the idle grumblings of their coach— the cool, collected team captain and quarterback that he knows today was once something of a hotshot himself. On the field, he was prone to getting penalties for everything from unnecessary roughness to prolonged celebration; in class, his stubbornness and a sharp rebellious streak led him to butt heads with classmates and teachers alike. Wild.

It only makes Keith admire Shiro more, glad to find threads of similarity between them. Enough to keep waking up at the crack of dawn and slipping out of his foster home before anyone else wakes, determined to squeeze in another run or workout session before class starts. 

Playing with Shiro is as rewarding as it is rigorous. Their practices run well into the evening, especially with all the extra work Keith needs to do to make up for getting into the game so late, and then there’s the pressure to keep up with his schoolwork on top of it. To help lighten the burden, Shiro makes a habit of carving out time to study with him, to check over his homework, to keep him organized and on track for success. 

Shiro keeps bringing snacks, of course. And an extra lunch each day for Keith, if he wants it, tasty and homemade. And breakfast, too, even if it’s only a protein bar or fresh fruit wolfed down in between a morning workout and first period.

And sometime around their fourth win, Keith feels a change. Something new and gut-twisting in its intensity, grown out of his existing admiration and affection but also all new, all different, all-encompassing.

A crush, he belatedly recognizes— and a crushing one at that, the first of its kind that Keith’s ever known.

It leaves him weak when Shiro compliments his form or steps in to gently correct it, fingers light as he taps against Keith’s back or shoulders or behind his knee. It makes his blood race when Shiro smiles at him, or laughs under his breath, or even when he does nothing at all, somehow just as charming when he’s staring blankly into a Chaucer reading as he is in the heat of a tied-up game. It spurs him to steal glances at Shiro as he works out, smooth skin flushed dark with exertion, always staring a second too long. Keith can’t help but blushing deep every time Shiro tackles him during practice, never more grateful for his visor than in those moments where a lean hundred-and-eighty pounds of Shiro sprawl across him, warm and far more welcome than it should be.

And the weight of everything he feels for Shiro leaves Keith heartsick when he sees Shiro and Adam slump together on the bus home after an away game, too tired to argue. Not that he ever would’ve had a chance with some like Shiro, anyway.

Their winning season takes them to the state playoffs, but it’s there that they falter. The loss comes for a few reasons— a handful of late-season injuries, the sudden departure of their assistant coach, and end-of-season weariness. The growing discord between Shiro, Adam, and players that have taken sides between them doesn’t help, either. It’s still a record to be proud of, though. And Keith _is_ , even beyond impressing Shiro and giving him a solid send-off season. He’s proud of himself.

He only wishes his dad were around to see him. To come to his games the way Shiro’s aunt does. To know that he has a friend as good as Shiro after so many years spent struggling on his own.

Finishing short of the championships certainly doesn’t put a damper on the scouts who came to watch Shiro, hoping to sway him from Garrison Tech, or slow the hype that surrounds the star quarterback. And Keith’s proud of him. _For_ him. No team could do better than Takashi Shirogane; he deserves to be vied for.

“A couple of them have their eye on you,” Shiro whispers after he’s done shaking hands with reps from various university teams. He winks. “Keep working hard and maybe we’ll be on the same team again soon.”

The words stick with Keith like a promise, warm as the hand on his back. In the wake of their defeat in the playoffs, reality settles in with stark clarity and disheartening weight. This is their final game together. It’s the last time he’ll be by Shiro’s side as his running back, both of them decked in black and red.

Shiro and Adam break up as soon as the season is finished, though. That’s a plus.

“It was overdue anyway,” Shiro sighs while Keith helps him tidy up the locker room one last time, storing everything neatly away before sweeping the floors and giving every surface a healthy spritz of disinfectant. “We’re going to different schools. We have different aspirations. We just... changed.”

“And he was a dick,” Keith huffs, finally feeling like he can say it. “He was jealous that you made it into Garrison Tech and he didn’t. I could see, hear, smell, and _feel_ how bitter he was. Four of the five senses, Shiro.”

It’s good to see Shiro smile again, even if it looks like he’s trying awfully hard not to. “I guess I figured he’d get over it eventually,” he sighs. “Or that he’d be happy for me, even if… I don’t know.”

“You can do better,” Keith promises, the sweeping of his broom quickening as he grows agitated at the mere thought of anyone breaking up with Shiro. “You _will_ do better, Shiro. Adam won’t,” he makes a point to mention, “but you will.”

“Thanks, Keith,” Shiro says, sporting a light blush as he finishes tying up trash bags and locking up the equipment storage. Sheepishly, he adds, “I figured it’s as good a time as any to take a little break from relationships, anyway. At least until I’m settled in at Garrison. But I’m glad you have faith in me.”

Keith shrugs, his barely-there smile growing into a full-fledged grin as Shiro invites him over for dinner once they’re done, offhandedly adding that his aunt is making the spicy chili chicken that Keith loves so much.

* * *

Even after everything— even with his heart quietly set on Shiro, stars in his eyes every time he looks at his best friend— part of Keith is surprised that Shiro still spends time with him after football is over. Not that he’d expected to be cast aside as soon as Shiro got what he wanted, not really, but… it seems less of a reach than the prospect of someone genuinely enjoying his company.

Even on dark, frosty Saturday mornings, Shiro swings by so they can jog together, two breakfast sandwiches gone cold clutched in his mittens. He entirely abandons his usual lunch table in the cafeteria, Adam apparently winning the lion’s share of their mutual friends. Instead, they sit together out in the courtyard or on a quiet hallway floor, sharing whatever lunch Shiro brought— cold dumplings, neatly sliced sandwiches plump with fillings, cookies, vegetables cut in cute flower shapes.

Keith clings to the closeness they have and toes a respectful line to keep it. Shiro is fresh out of a bad relationship and headed to Garrison Tech’s training camp as soon as the school year ends, after all, and Keith is… Keith. A crush isn’t worth spoiling their last few months together by making things awkward between them.

On the night of the spring formal, Shiro invites him along to watch movies with one of his few remaining friends, Matt Holt, and his younger sister. They’re not bad, Keith decides, even if he’d rather spend time with Shiro alone. And the night of eighties classics is nice. Better than listing around a dancefloor and lamenting every moment that he can’t dance with Shiro the way he wants to, wrapped tight in his arms and comfortingly nestled in the smell of his sweet vanilla soap. Better still when Keith gets a noseful anyway as Shiro nods off midway through _Alien_ and slumps comfortably into Keith’s side, murmuring something about John Hurt.

There’s an easiness to being around Shiro that Keith never thought he’d feel with another person. A tactile comfort. A growing assurance that he can trust Shiro without getting burned for it, even if everyone else to come in and out of his life before has just been a lesson in loss.

That certainty is briefly tested when one of the school yearbook photographers approaches them during lunch and asks to take a picture of Shiro in front of the school trophy case, quote, _“Before they replace your name on all those plaques.”_

With Keith’s name, no less, in recognition of the rushing yards he’d racked up in his first season and two or three other freshly broken records.

While Shiro chipperly agrees and proceeds down the hall to the athletics tophycase kept in the school’s main entry, Keith follows in tow, awash with guilt. His stellar season means wiping away Shiro’s accomplishments, one-by-one— records he had set over four years on the football team, and now Keith’s supplanting him before he’s even graduated yet.

“Sorry,” Keith murmurs as soon as the photographer leaves, weight building in the pit of his stomach as Shiro snaps a pic of the trophy case as-is for himself, catching his own smiling reflection in the glass in the process.

“For what?” Shiro questions, handsome brows furrowing as he stares down at his phone, distracted.

Keith’s gaze cuts sideways, uncertain. “For... showing up and wrecking your legacy?”

Those furrowed eyebrows shoot upward as Shiro’s full and undivided attention swivels up to Keith. “My legacy? Keith. _Keith._ Keith, _that_ ,” he says, tapping the glass of the case with a finger, “is not my legacy. Those are plaques they order from some cheap warehouse site. Look, they even misspelled my name on one from my freshman year.”

He points to Keith next, fingertip gently prodding at the center of his chest. “ _You’re_ my legacy here. And maybe Matt and Pidge too, if I can convince them to tolerate sun exposure and attempt a contact sport, but it’s mostly _you,_ Keith. I’m so much prouder of you than I am of the yards I rushed or how many touchdowns I scored. You’re my friend. That’ll always mean the most to me.”

Keith blushes cherry red as Shiro ruffles his hair and sweeps him into a wonderfully warm, comforting hug. He clings back just as fiercely, grateful that he can hide the sudden prickling of tears along his lashes by burying his face into Shiro’s chest. The knuckles running lightly up and down his spine soothe Keith until he’s practically melted into Shiro’s hold, more content than he’s felt since that night at Matt and Pidge’s.

“And I’m going to set all new personal bests while I’m at Garrison Tech anyway. Good luck breaking those,” Shiro whispers in Keith’s ear while they’re still wrapped close, a tease and a challenge all wound together.

Keith takes it to heart, determination filling him the way molten iron fills a cast. It cools into a resolve that stands firm even after Shiro lets him go, jelly-kneed and boneless after being held so long and so fondly— Keith will do whatever it takes to be with Shiro again, to play at his side. He’ll follow him to Garrison Tech and wherever beyond it, so long as Shiro wants him near, too.

* * *

Come late spring, Shiro graduates at the top of his class and packs everything to move halfway across the country, eager to start his training camp and make good on his word. 

Keith is no less eager for it, even if Shiro’s leaving feels akin to a piece of his heart being parceled out, hopefully to be returned at a later date. He wants the world to adore Shiro the way he does. He wants Shiro to live his dreams to the fullest, even if it means they’ll be hundreds of miles apart. Shiro deserves to flourish and he’ll do it at Garrison Tech.

And Keith will eventually catch up to him, somehow.

It’s still dark when Shiro and his aunt stop by Keith’s foster parents’ place on the way to the airport for one last goodbye on his last day in town. Keith’s toes curl in on themselves while he waits, barefoot and shivering on the cold sidewalk. He’d practically fallen out of bed at Shiro’s text of _On my way! :)))_ and dashed outside without bothering to pull on socks or shoes or even a jacket.

The backseat of Tomomi’s tiny, mint-colored car is stuffed with three suitcases and a backpack. Shiro himself sits sleepy and rumpled in the passenger seat, like maybe he never quite managed to get any sleep last night. If so, Keith can relate.

But as soon as Shiro rounds the car and gathers him up into a prolonged hug, Keith doesn’t feel a single lick of the early morning cold. Just Shiro, warm as ever.

“I’m gonna miss you,” Keith tells him, fighting back the welling tears that he’d thought he cried out last night. He buries his face into the crook of Shiro’s shoulder, smothering the shaky breaths that threaten to turn into sobs if left unchecked.

“I’ll miss you, too, Keith.” A hand ruffles up through Keith’s bedhead, soothing like always, and then slides down the span of his back. They linger there for maybe a minute, Shiro unbothered as Keith slowly shifts his bare feet until they’re cushioned atop his sneakers. “Hey, uh… is it weird that I only just noticed how much taller you’ve gotten? And more muscley, too. When we first met, you were…”

“Tiny,” Keith supplies for him, sniffling even as a smile draws across his lips. It’s true that he’s gained a few inches and developed a little bit of lean muscle, especially along his thighs. Months of regular workouts and satisfying meals will do that, he supposes. “Maybe I’ll be taller than you the next time we see each other.”

Shiro’s eyebrows lift and the corner of his mouth quirks, clearly amused at the thought. “Hopefully it won’t be _that_ long before I can come visit.”

“Hopefully,” Keith agrees, already wistful for it.

“Uh, hey. I got you something,” Shiro says as he slowly pulls back, grinning as he tugs a vibrantly orange hoodie from the open window of the car. He unfurls it, stretching the fabric wide to show off the white lettering across its back.

“Garrison Tech,” Keith murmurs as he takes the hoodie and bunches it to his chest, cradling it like he would with anything precious.

“I already snipped the tags and washed it and everything,” Shiro says. “I, uh, had it sitting on my bed for a while so it probably doesn’t have that fresh laundry scent anymore. Sorry.”

“It’s fine, Shiro.” Keith lacks the brazenness to tell Shiro he likes the way he smells better anyway. He tugs the hoodie on over his head, immediately grateful for the warmth and the constant reminder of Shiro it’ll serve as. It nearly swallows him up, sized with plenty of room to grow— or to comfortably snuggle in, as if it were one of Shiro’s. “Thank you. For everything.”

Shiro only shakes his head as he draws Keith into one more hug, chin resting atop the crown of his head. “You just keep doing what you’ve been doing, Keith. Ask Matt and Pidge for help if you need any. Or me,” he adds, but it’s a little rueful.

Because it won’t be the same without him here, ready to guide and comfort Keith every step of the way.

Keith lingers on the sidewalk long after Tomomi’s car pulls back into traffic and disappears around the corner, taking Shiro with it. He waits, just in case, shifting his weight from one foot to the other to warm his toes against the back of each calf. And then, trudging with bones of lead and a heart just as heavy, he retreats back to the twin bed in his room and buries himself under the covers within his new hoodie that still smells faintly of Shiro.

When he wakes again, it’s to a string of texts from Shiro. Some are meant for a group chat shared with Matt and Pidge, too, charting his flight and touchdown in a whole new city. Others are only for him: nervousness about the flight, a shot of sunrise over the tarmac, a picture of the sour worms and Redhots he picked up in the airport with a simple _made me think of you! :)_ attached.

Shiro texts him all throughout his training camp, too. He sends pictures of the dorm room where he’s spending the summer and Garrison Tech’s practice field, bright and smiling in the sunshine. On weekends, they video chat while they lay in bed. Shiro brews with excitement over the upcoming season and pines for his aunt’s home cooking, groaning when Keith describes in detail the latest treats she dropped off for him and the Holts at practice.

Shiro’s debut as a true freshman quarterback come fall is spectacular. He garners national attention in that first game, lighting up the screen first with a battery of seamless plays and then with his smile as Garrison wins by a staggering forty-seven to twenty-one. His name is everywhere. His face, too, and somehow he’s only gotten more handsome since he left.

Keith misses him with the constancy of the stars. His quietly-kept crush never faded, even as Shiro went from mentor to friend. If anything, it’s worse now that there’s enough distance between them for Keith to realize just how good he’d had it— a year of having Shiro close enough to smell, to casually touch, to tug him to the ground in a heap as they tussled on the field.

He’d started playing football for Shiro. Keith keeps at it for both of them.

And he’s a natural at it, undeniably. The coaches know it, too, and whatever their issues with his past behavior, they’re eager to capture lightning in a bottle twice with another potential football star alumni. And who better than Takashi Shirogane’s handpicked protege?

Matt and Pidge Holt, tapped to join the school team as Shiro exited it, turn out to be rather remarkable players, too— all thanks to Shiro’s eye for talent in unexplored places. Pidge, like Keith, is small and nimble, if considerably less quick; she’s invaluable when it comes to analyzing tapes of their opponents and strategizing counters, too. And Matt’s reach and speed make him a decent wide receiver, even if he bitches and moans every time Keith drags him out for a conditioning run or workout.

Along with millions of others, Keith watches as Shiro leads Garrison Tech to its first national championship in almost ten years, cheering him on through the season in texts and video chats and one anonymous twitter thirst account that he will _never_ admit to running. He wears the bright orange of Garrison Tech around his high school campus, subtly preening in the new gifts that Shiro sends every few weeks— tanks and joggers and sleek track jackets that remind him that Shiro’s still thinking of him, even separated by months and countless miles.

And come winter break, Shiro returns to visit his aunt for Christmas and New Year’s, bringing with him a small mountain of souvenirs from the southwest. Keith joins them for hot pot, hanging on Shiro’s every word as he talks about his new team and his coaches and the professional league scouts that are already lining up to speak with him.

He’s broader than Keith remembers. Curvier with muscle. More than once Keith misses his mouth with his chopsticks as Shiro reaches across the table to snag another piece of cabbage or thin-sliced beef, entranced by the flex of his bicep. Keith wonders if he could even close his hands around it.

“I brought your Christmas present,” Shiro says later, once they’ve retreated upstairs to his room. It’s a little stuffy and dusty with disuse, the lingering of his presence nearly faded over all the months he’s been away, but Shiro’s bedroom is still the most comforting place Keith knows. He grabs a neatly wrapped box from behind his desk and gently tosses it over to where Keith sits cross-legged on a rolled out sleeping cushion, grinning. “You can either open it now or wait until Christmas.”

Keith snorts and starts carefully lifting tape and peeling off the red and black plaid gift wrapping paper. “You know I don’t have the patience for that.”

“I know,” Shiro laughs as he flops onto his bed, stretched out on one side, grey eyes sparkling as he watches Keith lift the lid of the box within.

It’s like opening a treasure trove of treats. Keith rifles through bags of spicy rice crackers, licorice, candy, and peppery jerky. There’s new Garrison Tech gear, too, and even a cute little wolf plush that Shiro says reminded him of Keith. And tucked in among everything, there’s also a new pair of premium football gloves in sleek black and gold, along with a matching pair of cleats in Keith’s size.

“I had to take them out of the box so it’d all fit,” Shiro says as Keith lifts the shoes out and examines them from every angle. “If they’re too small, you can exchange them for another size. Or pick a different pair, if you don’t like the color.”

“No. They’re perfect,” Keith whispers as he kicks off his slippers and pulls on the new cleats instead, testing the fit. They mold to his feet like they were made for him. “Thanks, Shiro. My pair was getting kind of worn out.”

“I figured. You’ll probably wear out all your cleats twice as fast as anyone else, as many yards as you rush,” Shiro says, praising even as he teases. With his chin resting on folded hands, he watches Keith pick through the rest of his gifts, smiling as he tries on the gloves and a pair of Garrison-orange socks next.

“I wish I could give you anything half this good, Shiro,” Keith laments, clearing his throat as he tucks everything Shiro’d given him back into the box and delicately sets it aside. “I, uh, made you something instead. I hope that’s okay.”

“Okay? Are you kidding? I love your art, Keith,” Shiro says, rolling closer to the edge of the bed. “Can I have it now?”

Nervously, Keith nods and shuffles over to his backpack, digging through the sleepover clothes he’d brought to fish out his sketchbook. Safely tucked inside its pages is a piece of heavy cardstock, one side of it done up in full color. “Yeah. But it’s not wrapped or anything.”

“It’s me?” Shiro asks as he gingerly takes the paper and pulls it close, eyes roving over every stroke.

“Yeah. You.” Keith draws up his legs and loops his arms around them, chin resting atop his knees. He’d filled pages and pages with wistful sketches of Shiro, either done from memory or while watching Garrison Tech’s games. This picture began as one of the latter, a gesture of Shiro vaulting over a defensive lineman who’d dived to catch him too soon; Shiro’d gone on to score a game-winning touch down right after.

“I remember this game,” Shiro whispers, biting his bottom lip through a charmed, flattered grin. “Wow, Keith. This is— is this a watercolor?”

“Colored pencils and turpentine,” Keith sheepishly corrects.

“This is amazing. You could be an artist, you know,” Shiro says, running a thumb over the lovingly rendered drawing— and then grimacing and lifting it away, as if suddenly worried he might have messed it up.

“It’s sealed and everything. A little touch won’t hurt it.” Keith hides his smile behind the bend of his arm, elated as Shiro carefully props the drawing up on his nightstand, right beside a picture of his grandfather. “And thanks, Shiro.”

* * *

It’s no surprise when Shiro decides to go pro the next year, leaving Garrison Tech after a single stellar, history-making season.

Every sportscaster and armchair coach agrees that it’s better for him to go into the big leagues while he’s at his peak— better to negotiate a favorable contract before some freak injury in a college bowl game spoils his career before it can even begin. Shiro can leverage his current acclaim and spotless season into security on an all-star team. It’s the opportunity of a lifetime, bringing with it a considerable paycheck, and Keith doesn’t fault Shiro in the slightest for leaping at the chance to live his dream.

He gets snapped up by the Daibazaal Imperials as a first-round draft pick, breaking yet another record in the process— highest contract pay for a new player in the league’s history. Shiro’s star continues to rise as the talking heads on every sports channel hype his professional debut, eager to see how the Imperials incorporate Takashi Shirogane into the team as a running quarterback.

And Keith follows Shiro’s example every step of the way, more determined than ever now that he’s faced with another hurdle to surmount if he hopes to play alongside Shiro again. It shows in how hard he studies and trains, in all the extra responsibilities he takes on for the team, in his mindfulness of the scouts who watch every game to gauge his skill and his temper and his teamwork.

As Keith’s senior year rolls around, though, he keenly misses how easy and often he and Shiro used to talk.

They check in at least once a week but Keith can tell that even that much is sometimes difficult for Shiro to manage. He yawns through their talks before bed, and more than once Keith’s paused mid-sentence and realized the faint wheezing on the other end of the line is Shiro sleeping, probably face down in his pillow. Between the high expectations of his new team and his insistence on continuing to work on his degree, Shiro is obviously stretched thin.

Keith can sympathize. Between keeping up his grades in an ambitious curriculum schedule and taking on the mantle of team captain for his senior year, he has to wonder how Shiro managed to do it all with such effortless, personable charm. There are practices to organize, team-building exercises to run, and the constant mystery of trying to interpret the coach’s mutterings to pass along instructions for the team. But Keith _tries,_ even if mediating disputes between teammates and boosting morale are well outside of his comfort zone.

It pays off, along with all the study habits that Shiro drilled into him. 

By the start of his final high school season, Keith is practically guaranteed a full-ride to Garrison Tech. The efforts of a dozen scouts and admissions officials from other schools can’t sway him in the slightest; Shiro went to Garrison, and so Keith will, too. Maybe this time _he_ can be the one sending orange hoodies and socks as gifts.

Around Keith’s birthday, he gets a package in the mail from Shiro. Stuffed inside are three 50-yard line tickets to a late season Daibazaal Imperials game, along with a front-and-back letter in a hasty scrawl that Keith recognizes from late night study sessions and the little notes Shiro used to leave on his locker. _You can either bring friends or use the extra seats for buffer space. I’ll buy you (and anyone you want to bring) plane tickets, too!_

There’s autographed merch inside, also, including a jersey in purple and orange with SHIROGANE printed proudly across the back. Keith immediately pulls it on over his clothes, relishing the thought of Shiro choosing it for him, and then settles in to read the rest of Shiro’s two-page letter.

The prospect of seeing his best friend in person again for the first time in close to a year has Keith walking on air for _weeks._ It’s been too long since Shiro’s come home. Too long since they’ve been able to talk for hours on end, til Keith’s throat goes scratchy and he can relax to the sound of Shiro’s voice. And ever since Shiro turned pro, they just don’t have moments like that. When they do manage to connect, rare as it feels, Keith can’t help but worry that Shiro looks stressed behind his smile.

The Imperials’ brutal training schedule is to blame, Keith knows, even if Shiro is always careful and cagey about badmouthing the team and its management. It doesn’t pay to be seen as anything other than a good team player, and Shiro is the type to make the best of any situation he’s in.

The season’s opening games are runaway successes for the new Imperials team. With both Takashi Shirogane and Lotor Sincline on the roster as quarterbacks, Daibazaal’s offense is twice as devastating. No one can match Lotor’s height or distance when it comes to completed passes, while Shiro is nigh uncatchable once he breaks through the defensive line. Every victory is crushing, the Imperials rolling through the season more or less unopposed.

Keith watches every game with baited breath, but not because he’s anxious about the score. It’s seeing Shiro _live,_ even if they’re separated by more miles than he cares to count. He’s as striking in his Imperial colors as he is in any uniform, dark hair slicked back with sweat whenever he pulls his helmet loose. The palpable ache in Keith’s chest lessens as he traces the smooth confidence of Shiro’s movements, sketches them down into his notebook, and glimpses a flicker of a smile from Shiro as the camera pans over him after another touchdown.

He texts Shiro a little congratulations message as the fourth quarter winds down, knowing it might be a day or two before he can reply. And as he curls up under the covers in one of his worn-thin Garrison hoodies, Keith dreamily dozes to the thought of soon seeing Shiro in the flesh, sitting in the same stadium as he plays, and cheering so close that Shiro might actually hear him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith loses Shiro. Keith finds Shiro.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It occurs to me now to mention that this is unbeta'd. Sorry for any inconsistencies or mistakes!

The news comes three days later, popping up in Keith’s feed like a blindsiding right hook. He freezes in place, his jacket halfway slipped on, and rereads the headline again. And again. And again, until the words blur a little more with every blink.

_Daibazaal Imperials’ Rookie Quarterback Hospitalized with Season-Ending Injury._

A text from Pidge flits in almost immediately, worriedly asking if Keith’s seen or heard anything about Shiro. He can’t form the thoughts or shape the words to respond, though. All Keith can do is stagger back down into his chair in the library and click through the link with a trembling thumb, hoping he’s misunderstood everything.

But everything he reads only turns his stomach more, flipping it end over end. Takashi Shirogane, gruesomely injured in a team practice this very morning. His arm bent, bone shattered. Surgery likely. His season unquestionably _over._

Suddenly, the hushed, still air of the library feels unbearably stifling. Close. _Chokingly_ close. Keith throws his phone into his bag and tears out of the library, eyes burning and a hand raking rough through his own hair. He storms into the first bathroom he passes and takes refuge in an empty stall, turning in a tight circle as his breaths fall fast and shallow.

Frantic, he fishes out his phone and types a shaky, _Are you okay?? What happened?_

It goes unanswered, obviously, and the silence works on Keith’s wracked nerves like battery acid eating through metal. He sags against the wall of the bathroom stall and buries his face in his hands, wishing that he could be there for Shiro _now,_ the same way Shiro was always there for him. To take care of _him,_ for once.

Keith knows himself well enough to skip the rest of his classes for the day. He’s too much of a mess right now, and hearing one wrong word about Shiro from a classmate would be enough to get himself expelled. With watery eyes that he keeps having to swipe at with the hem of his sleeve, he slinks out of an underused entrance and heads— well, he doesn’t know where to head. 

Not to his foster parents’ house and their inevitable questions. Not to the Holts, either. Not anywhere that people might see him, recognize him, try to _sympathize_ with him. Keith’s head hangs low as his feet carry him down crowded streets, over bridges, and past a park of bare-branched trees. By the time Keith looks up and takes stock of his surroundings, he’s standing in front of Shiro’s aunt’s house.

Its windows are dark. Tomomi’s mint-colored car is missing from the spot out front. Keith wonders if she’s already with Shiro or still mid-flight.

Keith finds a quiet place in the park, grateful that the November chill has left it largely empty. On a grassy, leaf-strewn knoll, he checks his phone again and hopes for better news.

It only worsens with every passing hour, though. Shiro’s first surgery doesn’t bode well for him, apparently, and arterial ruptures in his broken arm might make amputation inevitable. They’re already speculating on whether it spells the end of Takashi Shirogane’s career.

Keith moves through the next days in a haze of worry, dwelling on the absolute silence from Shiro and what it must mean about his condition. Colleen Holt keeps him over that weekend, sleeping on the couch in their living room and coaxing him to eat. Pidge sticks by his side, tight-lipped as she scrolls through ESPN articles and messages Matt.

It’s through social media that Keith first sees pictures of Shiro haggardly emerging from the hospital, his throwing arm amputated just above the elbow and bandaging laid over his nose, where the faceguard of his helmet apparently crushed inward. It’s hard to believe a bit from a teammate could do so much damage— pinning Shiro’s arm until it splintered and slamming his head to the ground with such force that the front of his helmet caved, too— but that’s Sendak. Causing grievous injury on the field isn’t new for him, but it is the first time it’s ever happened to a teammate. And during a practice rather than a televised game, behind the closed doors of the Imperials’ stadium.

And the fallout for Shiro is wholesale devastation, his sterling, fledgling career ripped to shreds in the span of seventy-two hours. His contract with the Imperials has a clause for catastrophic injury and since Shiro can’t play, he’s cut loose from the team with next to no compensation.

Worse, the Daibazaal Imperials’ press release subtly blames Shiro for the accident that befell him in the first place. Everything from his former team reeks of bad blood, and even the faintest thought of Sendak or Zarkon leaves Keith tasting bile at the back of his throat, spitting mad and physically sick over what Shiro must be going through.

Not he knows anything firsthand. A week later and Keith’s texts still sit unread, unreturned. Whether he sends long, worried paragraphs or short, tentative texts asking if Shiro’s okay, he hears absolutely nothing back.

Shiro remains the talk of the sports world for weeks, though— a rising star who’d crashed back to earth before he’d even finished his first professional season. Keith can’t help but check his phone daily for any missed calls or messages from Shiro; barring that, he finds himself scrolling social media for any updates, guilt-ridden as it leaves him afterward.

Because as desperate as he is to see his best friend, the way the sports world follows after Shiro is _invasive._ They corner him with microphones and blunt questions as he leaves his agent’s office, morbidly fascinated with the wreckage of his career. They plaster magazines and screens with paparazzi-style photos of Shiro on his way to rehabilitation with a steely prosthetic where his right arm used to end. It spurs a whole new flurry of discussion centered on Takashi Shirogane and whether he ought to be allowed to compete while wearing it. Would a quarterback with a high tech arm have an unfair advantage? Could he play a different position, less centered on pass-making?

Keith grows exhausted of hearing about Shiro from everyone but the man himself. Sports pundits wear Shiro’s name out with all their talk, though all the praise they’d once heaped upon the fresh young player who’d joined the league mere months ago seems to have dried up, leaving behind only criticism and a vague sense of disappointment that they hadn’t gotten to see more of Takashi Shirogane on the field before... before _that._ Like the greatest shame in all of this is having their expectations dashed.

Keith never does use the Daibazaal Imperials tickets Shiro’d sent him. The thought of sitting in the same stadium with the lineman who’d maimed Shiro and the team that cast him off makes Keith’s vision spot with red, his stomach churning until he feels too sick to stand. In a tear-filled rage, he tears up the tickets and dumps them in the trash instead, nevermind how much they’d be worth sold secondhand.

Pidge helps keep him focused on school so he doesn't spoil his chances at getting into Garrison Tech. She’s the only person better at handling at his prickliest is Shiro, and… well, Shiro isn’t here to help keep him on the rails anymore.

Matt reaches out to say that Shiro hasn't gotten back to him, either, so it's nothing personal. There’s a strain in his voice as he rattles off all the reasons Shiro might be too preoccupied to talk to any of them— his injury, copious stress, legal reasons, a sudden bout of amnesia, alien body swapping. Etcetera.

And it doesn't reassure Keith at all. The blanket silence from Shiro feels like a wall a thousand miles tall and just as wide. Like they might as well be on opposite ends of the universe, for all Keith can cross it and find him. All he can do is reach out to Shiro and wait.

And he’s never been much good at waiting.

Keith's not at all himself on the field anymore, even if he’s still running a blistering four-point-two second forty-yard dash as he goes through the motions. Shiro had been his guiding light for years now, and with him suddenly vanished from the picture, Keith is adrift. Not completely, thanks to all the groundwork he laid and the stubborn, snappy support of Pidge and her family, but enough that Keith knows he might well have dropped out under different circumstances.

He stumbles through their last few games and makes a decent showing at the state playoffs. The Garrison Tech scouts and reps still seem to like him well enough— or his golden legs, at least— enough to gloss over his stilted speech and the surly air he wears like armor.

It’s a slog, but Keith lasts through the rest of the school year. Freshly emancipated from his foster family, he spends the last few months of his senior year living in Matt’s old room. The Holts refuse to charge him for room and board or meals, which is well enough. Keith can’t afford to turn down their generosity, literally.

Come spring, he follows in Shiro's footsteps and heads to Garrison’s training camp. It's while he's there that he feels the noticeable, dreadful shift as the public eye turns to rest on him now— Takashi Shirogane's hand-picked mentee, the unmatched running back who'd seemingly sprung up out of nowhere and now follows in Shiro’s footsteps. The comparisons are endless. Keith comes to resent them.

He’s questioned about Shiro by his new coach, by his new teammates, by anyone and everyone who recognizes him when he’s just trying to buy peanut butter or go for a jog. He’s reminded again and again that his dream of a life spent by Shiro’s side is thoroughly sacked. That they haven’t spoken in eight months. That they might not even be friends anymore.

Not to Shiro, at least.

While Keith adjusts to Garrison’s athletic program (easy) and gets to know a bevy of new people (hard), he starts catching whispers about Shiro possibly signing with a new team. It’s all rumors for a while, a dozen names floating around as football fans and professional commentators alike wonder what team would enlist someone as unwanted and unlucky as Takashi Shirogane.

Days later, the news officially breaks. The Arusian Lions, a fledgling franchise in its first year, confirm that they’ve picked up Takashi Shirogane— not as a quarterback, but a linebacker.

Keith’s stomach sinks for no good reason. It’s not as though he still had a shot at sharing the field with Shiro to begin with, but something about his move to the defensive line seems to seal it. If Shiro’s not playing as a quarterback anymore, why would he need a running back by his side?

He’s glad Shiro’s found a team that sees his worth, though. It’s what he’s deserved from day one.

Shiro’s return to the sport only intensifies the media scrutiny on Keith, too. The public at large seems to have trouble deciding what their relationship must be— mentor and mentee, rivals, best friends, worst enemies. And fair enough, since Keith’s not all too sure where they stand, either.

The brilliant lights and massive array of cameras that come with playing college ball games make Keith immensely grateful for the dark tinted eyeshield that’s carried over to his new Garrison helmet. It’s well worth Lance’s constant teasing, too. His visor a comfort, a shield he can pretend to hide behind even when he's being watched by millions.

And… and it reminds him of that afternoon years ago, when Shiro had helped him put together his first uniform. Shiro’s soft ‘ _It suits you’_ comes back to Keith whenever he catches a glimpse of himself wearing it, whether in a mirror or in vibrant photos. And it does, really. Shiro’d known it right from the start.

From afar, between his classes and workouts and his own games, Keith watches Shiro start his new season with the Arusian Lions. The new team flounders for a game or two, but Shiro and the Lions' quarterback, Allura Altea, are both standouts from the start, sparking a flurry of excitement across social media.

Keith finds himself staring at highlight reels of Shiro dominating on the defensive line, his silvery prosthetic wrapped in athletic tape and white gloves stretched over his broad hands. 

He's bulked up since joining the pro leagues, some thirty pounds of additional muscle packed onto his tall frame. He isn’t any less quick, though, and that’s what makes him such a devastating linebacker. Shiro sprints and lunges just as fast as any running back, chasing them down the way a lion might catch a winded gazelle. And when he tackles, it’s with spearlike reach and enough muscle to stop his opponents cold.

With a queasy, hopeful twist in his gut, Keith tries sending him another text.

_Keith: great game. I hope you’re enjoying the lions._

It shows up as read a few hours later, only to sit unanswered. Keith blinks down at the screen, jaw tightening of its own accord. He bites back a swell of disappointment that shouldn’t come as a surprise.

He distracts himself with other messages, scanning through a group chat with Hunk and Lance before responding to some meme Matt had sent last night. And then his screen lights with an incoming call from a name and a number that are still unfamiliar, if welcome to see— his mom.

She’d reached out halfway through the season, right after the swell of fame Keith had garnered began to bleed over into headlines and buzz outside the world of college football. And while Keith had initially been suspect, it was impossible to argue with the fact that he looked like a spitting image of Krolia. Or how she knew everything about his dad, right down to the dumb jokes he always told and the brand of gum he’d liked to chew. And so much about Keith, too, like the birthmark on his right shoulder.

Keith barely remembered her, though. A string of deployments meant she’d hardly been around when he was a kid— and had cried when she’d come home and tried to hold him, apparently— and by the time she went missing in action on a routine patrol, Keith was only six.

His father had never talked about it; Keith never knew to ask. And when Krolia eventually returned to the states two years later, Keith had already bounced through three or four different group homes and foster parents. She’d never been able to track him down, the web of red tape and shoddy record-keeping too dense to see through.

Until Keith had started showing up on the news, anyway. She says she’d recognized him at first sight, even before his name rolled across the feed of headlines at the bottom of the screen.

Keith’s season at Garrison Tech has echoes of Takashi Shirogane’s freshman year there, or so the talking heads on all the sports channels say. The comparisons linger all the way through the collegiate national championships, Garrison Tech taking its second title in as many years, and they don't stop when Keith goes pro immediately afterward.

As with Shiro, the Daibazaal Imperials make their keen interest known. And to anyone else, the salary and perks they offer would be nearly impossible to refuse— buying up talent has always been one of Zarkon’s skills.

Keith flatly refuses. Rudely, even, and more than once. He bypasses the draft and instead takes an offer from the Marmora Blades. It's an underdog team, tightknit, and based out of a city close to Krolia. He can advance his career while reconnecting with his only living family.

And it isn't until Keith's just bought his own place not far from his mom's house and met the rest of his new team that he realizes... he'll end up seeing Shiro again.

Inevitably. Only this time, they’ll watch each other from across the field, squaring off as opposing teams. They’ll meet up close, face-to-face, as offense and defense. And as a linebacker, Shiro is practically built to counter him.

Their first matchup happens even sooner than Keith had expected. A preseason game between the Blades and the Lions is scheduled late in summer, and though the exhibition match won’t affect their teams’ standings, it means _everything_ to him. The thought of seeing Shiro in the flesh again fills Keith with as much dread as it does excitement; his stomach fills with anxious butterflies whenever he imagines lining up opposite Shiro and looking into stormy grey eyes under the shadow cast by his helmet.

As the Blades start reviewing tapes from the Lions’ previous matches, Keith has eyes only for number forty.

Shiro stands bigger and broader than Keith ever remembers knowing him. He’s a brick wall to running plays and a terror when it comes to sacking quarterbacks, cleaving through defensive lines like the tip of a spear. A body heavy with that much muscle shouldn't be so agile, so flexible, but Shiro makes it look natural. Strong and surprisingly acrobatic, he pulls off astounding maneuvers that grind his opponents’ offensive pushes to a halt.

And he looks good doing it, Keith notices. Can’t _help_ but notice, really.

Stretchy white uniform pants cling tight to every curve of Shiro’s thick, toned thighs; Keith can see the way the muscle flexes underneath as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, how it jiggles slightly as Shiro jogs out onto the field. The full, perfect curves of his biceps peek out from under the pink and blue of the Arusian Lions’ jerseys, distracting whenever Shiro jumps high and extends his arms to make an interception. Even with the new scar across his nose, still dark and unfaded. Even with the new arm, all glossy silver where athletic tape and the fabric of his glove doesn’t cover it. He's...

The same Shiro. Beautiful as ever, dreamy as ever, impossible to look upon without Keith’s heart running wild.

His new coach, Kolivan, has gotten familiar enough with him to know his history with Shiro. So much so that he apparently feels the need to take Keith aside after practice ask about it.

“Are you _certain_ you’re ready to go head-to-head against Shirogane?” Kolivan questions in a whisper, tone some equal mix of genuine concern and the exasperation of a strategist trying to nail down variables. “If not, I’ll put Ezor in. If you’re conflicted, it’s... understandable, Keith.”

“I can,” Keith promises, his fists curling tight. The absolute last thing he can bear is the thought of sitting idly on the sideline across from Shiro, forced to watch him from such an insufferably close distance. “I can face him.”

* * *

The game falls on a warm summer night in an open-air stadium, the thundering roar of the crowd nothing compared to dizzying pound of Keith's heartbeat in his own ears. It’s his first official match as a professional and the scale of _everything_ is twice what he’d grown accustomed to at Garrison Tech. It feels like the world is watching, cameras lines up all around the gridiron and some sixty-thousand fans piled into the seats around them. The blinding lights overhead combined with the day's lingering heat have him sweating under his uniform well before kickoff.

It doesn’t help that Keith can already see the _40_ emblazoned across Shiro's back where he stands across the field, head bowed low as he and the other Lions listen to a man with an orange mustache. Their coach. Wimbledon-something.

Keith nervously adjusts his gloves and fits on his helmet, hiding behind its visor. To steady his nerves, he counts a few deep breaths in and out— a technique Shiro first taught him, he uncomfortably remembers— and stretches his legs for the umpteenth time.

The Blades win the coin toss and choose to receive. Keith’s stomach does something like cartwheels as his cleats touch the same soil that Shiro now walks on, as if the turf is a pond and the ripples of their steps are already mingling. He bounces from one foot to the other as he sets up deep in the field, loosening his legs. The game hasn’t even begun, but his heart is running at full-speed.

The Lions' kick-off sends the football arcing high, carried on the deafening screams of the fans in the stadium seats. It clears seventy-plus yards before Keith scurries under it for the catch, the ball landing neatly between his hands and the front of his chest.

And then he runs.

Keith's always been fast— it's how Shiro noticed him to begin with, obviously— but time and experience have made him better at reading the lay of the field and anticipating the defense's moves. He smartly swings around two advancing Lions, outpacing them with ease, and cuts a clear path toward the end zone. With Shiro nowhere in sight, it almost seems too easy.

But the hammering of footsteps and the flicker of a shadow over the turf beside him soon follow, and Keith knows Shiro is close. _Dangerously_ close. There’s only one man on this field capable of catching him, after all, and he knows Keith’s moves better than anyone.

An arm slides around Keith's middle and hooks tight, iron and unyielding. Shiro's weight is like an anchor, stopping Keith cold and upending his momentum. His feet lift from the ground, weightless, and the world spins. For a moment, all Keith feels is Shiro's hard, padded bulk against him, heaving him close.

And then he slams into the earth, hard, with Shiro coming down right after him, a landslide of firm muscle and hot, panting breath.

Keith fights to hang onto the ball through the jarring tackle, struggling against the disorientation from the abrupt fall. He gasps in a hard, ragged breath and squirms against the crushing press of Shiro's body, less out of a need for breath and more out of eagerness to feel him again, even if it's like this.

Or _especially_ like this. Keith isn't sure, but a wave of longing crests and breaks over him at Shiro’s nearness after so long apart. He’s heavier than Keith remembers, but the way he presses down into him calls back a hundred memories of rolling together during practices and scrimmages and playful horsing around on the field.

The worrying, comforting weight bearing him down vanishes as Shiro rises back on his feet, suddenly looming high. The absence leaves Keith strangely bereft, feeling hollow around the ball still clutched to his chest with both hands. He squints through his visor as he looks up, still dazed. All around them the crowd chants, the referees shout, the stadium lights blaze.

Their teammates are watching, bands of Marmora and Lions hanging nearby in loose half-circles. So are the cameras, dozens of flashing lights and beady lenses waiting to make something of their reunion. Keith’s eye finds Shiro and fixes on him, steadfast, knowing his own expression is safely unreadable behind the smoky tint of his visor. 

Which is a blessing. It means Shiro can't see the tears that well in Keith's eyes as he backs away slow, wordless and unmoved as he retreats into the fold of his new teammates.

Thace helps him up, a hand lingering on Keith’s elbow to steady him, and they reset. This time, lined up face-to-face on the line of scrimmage, Keith can all too easily see Shiro where he lurks just behind the linemen, unfazed. Like they’re any two strangers meeting on the gridiron.

The play starts. Thace feints a pass and then slips the ball into Keith’s hands. His new cleats dig into the field as he sprints as far and as fast as he can, taking pains to avoid Shiro at every turn.

It doesn’t stop Shiro from finding him, though.

This time, they roll across the turf as Shiro tackles him. In the upheaval, the ball slips from Keith’s grasp. He snarls behind his face mask as the announcer calls out his fumble, voice echoing around the stadium, and there’s a thundering past them as other players race to claim the ball first. But Shiro's sturdy arms keep Keith caged there on his back, chest-to-chest, unable to even scramble for a recovery.

"Keith."

He stills. Waits for more. From the glossy cover of his visor, Keith searches Shiro's face— sweat-dripping skin, a heated flush over his cheeks, a tired, worried squint to grey eyes that had always been warm and smiling.

"Sh-Shiro," he breathes back, shocked where he lay.

But it's already time to set up again, the Lions having stolen the ball and run it in for a touchdown. Shiro pushes himself up off of Keith, grunting softly, and then extends a hand down to help him up.

Keith takes it, dazed and disbelieving as reaches upward. The offered hand is steely under the white and grey glove Shiro wears, touch firm and gentle at once. Effortlessly, Shiro pulls him to his feet, the cords along his bicep flexing in an easy show of strength. Keith's glad for the extra support as he nearly swoons, both from the unexpectedly kind gesture and the hand light on his flank to help steady him.

They share a drawn, uncertain look. Keith has to remind himself to breathe. Shiro’s dry lips stick a little as they part, as if he’s thinking of something to say.

And then Keith is called back to his team's huddle, giving Shiro a helpless little shake of his head as he goes.

"That Shirogane really has it out for you," Thace mutters as Keith shoulders into the ring of Marmora players, giving him a sympathetic look. "We'll use that. I'm passing to Ulaz next. You draw Shirogane away. _Far_ away."

"Got it."

 _Gladly._ Keith can think of few assignments more satisfying than making sure Shiro sticks to him on man-to-man coverage.

On the next run, Thace fakes a hand-off to Keith, who hunches low and immediately cuts around the defensive line. Shiro's surprisingly light footfalls flank him in seconds flat, his lightning-quick tackle following just a heartbeat later.

This time, Keith almost embraces it.

They land in a heap, all tangled together. The eyes of the crowd and their teammates are on Ulaz instead, clear downfield, as he scores the Blades' first touchdown.

"Sneaky," Shiro mutters over Keith's shoulder, faintly approving. He groans as he rolls to his feet.

Again, he helps Keith up. Again, he doesn't seem to know what to say after.

They're both sidelined as the Lions' offense and the Blades' defense step up to take the field instead. Keith rips off his helmet and gulps down air, his short ponytail damp against the back of his neck. He downs a full bottle of water, feeling parched from the inside out, and hunts for a number forty among the milling bodies on the other sideline, utterly disinterested in the clash taking place on the field.

Keith paces up and down his own team’s line, electricity crackling through his bones at the sight of Shiro with his helmet off, sweaty hair jutting at all angles as he pours water down his throat, under the collar of his jersey and the straps of bulky shoulder padding to cool off. He’s still confused about whatever’s happening on the field— and excited, and hopeful— but it’s clear that Shiro doesn’t _hate_ him. And after chasing him down for so long, Keith feels like he’s _this close_ to getting some kind of answer.

It’s only when Keith eventually loses sight of Shiro behind the rest of the Lions that Keith’s attention slips back to the exhibition game at play. He watches on unsurprised as Allura, the Lions’ quarterback, throws perfect spiral after perfect spiral to the wide receiver downfield. Where Shiro gives the team’s defense its bite, she leads the offense, all beautiful, pinpoint precision even as Antok and the rest of the Blades’ linemen close in around her.

The Lions score again in no time. Keith and Shiro take the field again.

It’s the same magnetic push and pull, that twining around each other as Keith runs and Shiro gives chase. Every time Keith has the ball, there’s a harrowing race to see if he can outrun his shadow in the number forty jersey.

On a few occasions, he manages, which is more than most running backs can say when up against Takashi Shirogane. With a whiff of a head start or a smart cut around some intercepting lineman, Keith can pull away from Shiro just enough to clinch a touchdown. More often, though, Shiro is there to cut his running streak short and bring him crashing down to earth in his arms.

Not that Keith minds it terribly. The contact is nice, if rough, and sometimes Shiro even laughs softly or murmurs something like, _“Barely got you that time.”_

All his aches and blooming bruises follow him into the locker room at halftime. His teammates whistle low and offer their sympathies for him taking the brunt of Shirogane’s freight train tackles.

Keith shrugs it off with a short, “I don’t mind,” that has Antok clapping his back and rumbling approvingly about dedication to the team as they settle in for the halftime pep talk.

Kolivan merely arches a brow and studies him for a moment before turning to address the team as a whole.

The next two quarters play out in the same back and forth, the same uncertain dance between Keith and Shiro. Tension rises as the game draws to a close, the score hovering at 38-35 with the Blades ahead by a field goal. It’s a small enough gap to be bridged by a single touchdown. It’s still anyone’s game.

The last hit Keith takes is enough to knock his mouthguard loose, his teeth snapping together hard as Shiro grabs him close and drops to the ground, taking him out of contention for the final play.

The timer sounds. The dust settles. The Marmora Blades locked up the win with a hail mary pass that Ulaz took to the end zone. 

As the game is called, the rest of the Blades flood the field and Keith sputters out a quick, “S-Shiro, wait—”

Shiro hauls him bodily up to his feet, leaving their hands clasped tight between their chests. His other hand settles on Keith’s shoulder and gives it a shake, congratulatory. “Good game, Keith. I knew you’d— you did great.”

And then he’s gone, eyeing the overly protective Blades who’ve come to gather Keith, jogging away before there can be any trouble with the victors.

Shiro-withdrawals undercut the celebratory locker room mood for Keith. While his team grows increasingly rowdy, he quietly studies the aftermath of the game in a mirror. The collar of his oversized shirt loops loose around his shoulders as he traces a fresh bruise along his clavicle; he lifts its hem and admiringly examines a smattering of markings down his flanks, faint but deepening by the minute.

They’re from Shiro, like the ones he’d sometimes leave during their high school scrimmages. They ache like the rest of Keith— in a welcome, familiar way, lingering evidence of the contact he’d been craving since the moment Shiro left for Garrison Tech. Marks that will help him remember Shiro for a few days longer, now that they’ve parted ways again.

With a little rap against a nearby locker, Kolivan interrupts.

“There’s a certain Lion waiting outside to see you,” his coach informs him, sharp eyes trained on the darkening bruises even as Keith tugs his shirt down to cover them. Protectiveness simmers in his baritone as he adds, “Or I could make him leave?”

“ _Shiro?_ He’s here?” Keith asks, taken aback by how needy and hopeful he sounds to his own ear. “N-No, I’ll see him. Thanks, Kolivan.”

He’s needed this for too long already, his heart withering a little more with every passing day without Shiro in his life. Keith can barely think straight as he scurries out of the locker room, hopping on one leg as he tugs on his sneaker. He rounds the corner to the hallway, ready to sprint after Shiro if he has to, only to find himself an inch from colliding into face-first into Shiro.

Briefly, Keith laments his own quick reflexes. He’s tall enough now that he comes up to Shiro’s jaw, but half-hunched from struggling with his shoe would’ve left him right at chest height.

Damn.

“Keith!” Shiro blinks at him in surprise, just as taken aback at Keith nearly running into him. “I... hey.”

“Shiro. Hey.” Keith can’t help the way his voice cracks on Shiro’s name, or that it breaks entirely the word after. Same as he can’t help the frustrated tears that prick at his eyes again, overwhelmed with emotion at just having Shiro standing in front of him again, even if they don’t have what they used to. “I missed you.”

The hallway is all white-painted cinderblocks and ugly, too-blight fluorescents. The aged lights overhead give off a faint buzz, and for a moment it’s the only sound aside from the distant echoes of closing lockers and the chatter of Keith’s teammates.

“The whole time,” Keith clarifies in a thin whisper, speaking from the heart while he still has Shiro in front of him. There’s no telling when the chance might come again, if ever. “And I worried about you, Shiro. Always. Every day. Even if you— if you’ve moved on, I still care. About you.”

Shiro’s shoulders sag. He looks older with the scarring that bridges his nose, and the patch of white that falls over his brow, too. Not that he’s any less handsome for it. Just warier behind the eyes, and sadder, and a little worn down in places Keith’s never noticed before.

“I’m sorry.” Shiro’s voice comes out weak and wavering, unlike anything Keith’s ever heard. “I know it’s long overdue and I’m sorry for that, too. But the last thing I wanted to do was hurt you, Keith. You more than anyone else.”

“You stopped talking to me,” Keith reminds him, leaning in and stretching up. The sharp edges of everything he’s held inside of him start to slip out, cutting at Keith even as he says them. “For over a year I’ve only seen you on tape, Shiro. Heard you in interviews. Trying to reach you has been like talking into the void. You promised once that you’d never give up on me—”

“I didn’t!” Shiro cuts in, as if that thought alone is too much to bear. “Never, Keith. Keith, _you?_ I knew you were going to do great things. I knew you’d finish growing into a wonderful person. I _never_ doubted that. Or in you.” 

And now Keith can see tears in Shiro’s eyes, too, building up only to be hurriedly blinked away, Shiro fighting tooth and nail to hold onto his composure. It occurs to Keith then that he’s never seen Shiro cry— not openly, not really. Not even when he’d reminisce about his grandfather or his parents on late evenings, tugging the collar of his t-shirt up over his face to catch anything before Keith could see it.

“I wasn’t in a good place, Keith,” Shiro admits, mouse-quiet as he smoothes a metal hand through his damp hair. “I couldn’t stomach the thought of anyone seeing me like that. Of— of disappointing any of you. I was so afraid that I’d lash out or break down or say something I’d regret. Or that I’d just be too depressing to listen to. That I’d ruin everything for both of us. And you were doing _so_ well for yourself, Keith. Team captain. A generous scholarship from Garrison. Your whole career laid out ahead of you.”

Pride shows itself in Shiro’s soft smile and softer eyes. His metal fingers curl in the air beside Keith, as if not quite sure where to put them or what to do with them.

“You didn’t need me anymore. Not really,” Shiro says with a rueful little smile, and the glimmer of restrained tears is back. “There wasn’t much more I could do to boost your career, but I definitely could’ve dragged it down into the muck with mine. I didn’t want to risk it. And I didn’t want you to see me that bitter, either. That... shattered.”

Keith’s lips fall parted as he tries to process everything he’s hearing. Without thought, his fingers dig into the front of Shiro’s shirt, clinging tight.

“Shiro...” Keith licks his lips, uncertain where to even begin reassuring him. “I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you. I wouldn’t even _have_ a career. I’d never have made it senior year without you being there for me, much less graduated. I wouldn’t have landed a full-ride scholarship, either. I’d never have thought twice about football. I’d never have gotten a _chance_. My mom would never have found me. You have no idea, Shiro, how much you’ve done for me.”

He gives that a moment to sink in, staring Shiro dead in the eye. Keith keeps both hands clenched tight in the front of his shirt, damned if he’ll let Shiro walk away before he’s set everything straight.

“You believed in me when everyone thought I was a waste of effort. You defended me. You set me on the right path, Shiro. How could you ever spoil _anything_ for me? I owe it all to you,” he says. It takes everything in him to resist pushing his way into Shiro arms, wanting so badly to be held again.

Shiro sighs and shakes his head, but it’s gentle. “You earned this on your own, Keith. And you always had greatness in you,” he smiles, and at last his hand settles on Keith’s shoulder, prosthetic fingers resting gingerly light over the fabric of Keith’s loose, wide-collared shirt.

“And it’s, um, complicated, Keith. I don’t know if here is the best place…” Shiro says, glancing behind him. He sighs, drops his voice furtively low, and leans a little closer. “After I filed the lawsuit against Zarkon and team management, he tried to blacklist me from every other franchise in the league. Mostly succeeded, too. Between the accident and all of Zarkon’s heavy-handed threats, Allura and her father were the only ones willing to take me on.”

“The Blades would’ve. Kolivan would’ve,” Keith says, the words coming out in a quiet, desperate rasp. _They could’ve been on the same team._ It could’ve been perfect.

Shiro’s smile is slow, patient, fond. “Kolivan would’ve. The franchise’s owners and investors weren’t as willing to bet on me, though. Believe me, Keith, I spent a long time trying to get back in the game,” he murmurs, shoulders sinking anew. “And I… I worried that Zarkon would spite you by association. That other teams would avoid you, too. I distanced myself from you to keep you out of it. Best as I could, anyway.”

“Zarkon made me an offer,” Keith remembers, more uncomfortable than ever and even more grudge-set against the powerhouse team that had fucked over Shiro so thoroughly.

“He’d have been a fool not to,” Shiro sighs, “but I’m relieved you didn’t take it.”

“Like I’d ever want any part of that team. Like I’d ever play alongside someone like _Sendak._ Like I’d ever do that to you,” Keith adds, giving him a meaningful look. “You know, I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about what I’m gonna do when I’m on the same field as him.”

“Yeah. Me too.” Without seeming to notice, Shiro draws back from Keith and grips his own wrist. He rubs lightly over the sleek metal joint, as if massaging away some phantom pain.

Keith notices, though, for the first time letting himself time stare at the gleam of aluminum and dark joints of soft polycarbonate, all of it foreign to him. “I’m sorry, Shiro. For everything they put you through.”

“It’s fine,” Shiro says, his voice thin and his words clipped. “I can play again now, at least. And I’m sorry for leaving you alone, Keith. I thought I was doing what was best for you, really. I thought I was protecting both of us.”

“I know,” Keith says as he finally lunges forward, buries his face in Shiro’s chest, and takes a deep breath. His arms wind around Shiro’s middle, hugging tight. “But it wasn’t.”

“I know,” Shiro murmurs into Keith’s hair, a hand coming around to rub soothing circles into the tensed muscle up his back. “I realized that when I saw you again.”

He’s so _warm._ So comfortable to lean into. So safe, so certain, so good to feel after missing him for what might as well be a lifetime. They linger in the dank, empty hallway under the stadium, rocking slowly side to side, until the motion-sensitive lights flicker out and leave them in the dark.

Shiro waves an arm, triggering them to flicker back on, and then tries to part from Keith. _Tries._ “Keith. Keith? Keith… you have to let go of me sometime.”

Keith only squeezes around him harder, winning a small, winded groan as he further compresses Shiro’s ribs. “No. Never again.”

“That’s fair,” Shiro sighs, sounding a shade more like his old self. He grunts as Keith’s hold locks tight, whole body briefly lifted off the ground from the force of Keith’s overwhelming affection. “Fuck, you went and got strong.”

Keith finally lets his grip on Shiro slacken, wearing a flattered, smug grin as he tilts his head back to look upward. “Yeah.”

“And you’ve grown. A lot,” Shiro observes, clearing his throat as he steps back to look Keith up and down.

“A while ago, yeah,” Keith says, having hit his growth spurt the summer before senior year and filled out after. His short time with the Blades has given him more lean muscle and definition, too. “Is this the first time you’ve seen me, since…?”

“No. No, I saw clips from your school ballgames. And I always recorded your Garrison games. And I saw your interviews. It’s just… different,” Shiro muses, his eyebrows raised as he considers the older, changed Keith who stands before him. “In person. Feeling it.”

“Definitely,” Keith agrees, reaching up to skim the new breadth of Shiro’s shoulders, to give his thickened biceps a testing squeeze.

He feels it when Shiro gives a little flex for him, showing off muscles about as big as his whole head. Keith’s stomach flips, a contented burn trailing down deep in its wake. In the long silence after, all he can think of is how much he wants to hold onto this moment. “Uh... where are you staying?”

“The hotel around the corner.”

"Wanna come stay at mine instead?" Keith asks, breathlessly brimming with hope. "I was going to room with Regris, but he already caught an early flight out. So... we could hang out. Have a sleepover."

"Like old times," Shiro supplies, his smile shy and sweet and more like what Keith remembers of him. "Let me text Allura so she won't worry," Shiro adds, "and we can swing by and pick up my bag on the way. Is that cool?"

"Very cool," Keith says, bouncing as he falls into step beside Shiro. Their legs are nearly the same length now, their strides equal.

The last time Keith walked by Shiro's side, he barely came up to Shiro's chest, small and stringy. Now they're a little less than a head apart, close enough to knock elbows as they walk— although Keith'll never match Shiro pound-for-pound in muscle or width.

They talk about the game on the walk to Shiro's hotel, which quickly turns into out-complimenting each other. Keith's cheeks flush pink as Shiro rambles on about his perfect form and lightning-quick cuts across the field.

"I learned from the best," Keith cheekily reminds him.

In Shiro's shared suite, Allura already sits in the middle of one of the queen beds, clad in pink pajamas with her hair piled up high in an elegant bun.

"Glad to see you two have reconnected," she greets, smiling through the cucumber-green of her face mask, "even if it means I'm losing my spa companion."

Despite losing to Keith's team just a couple hours prior, Allura is nothing but kind and cordial as she scoots to the edge of the bed and makes sure Shiro has all of his things. They hug before he goes, whispers passing back and forth between them.

Keith only catches the barest glimpse of Allura’s self-satisfied, catlike grin before Shiro hurriedly turns and steers him back out into the hall, red up to his ears.

"Is everything okay?" Keith asks when Shiro is still looking feverish ten minutes later, as they take the elevator up to the block of rooms for Marmora players.

"Fine. Perfectly fine," Shiro says, huffing out a heavy breath as he rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet, all bottled, nervous energy not-quite-contained by one of his usual smiles.

Keith knows how _that_ feels.

It’s a generously sized room, complete with two plush queen-sized beds and a TV a few inches bigger than the one Keith has at home. The view overlooks night-darkened streets and blinking city lights, neon yellows and reds and soft blues faintly reflected in the glass. Late as it is, they order room service— steak, champagne, fancy mac & cheese, truffle french fries, and a decadent cheesecake slice to split.

They stretch out side-by-side on Keith’s bed to eat, stealing bites from each other’s plates while they catch up. It’s almost like being in high school again, away for a weekend during distant games for state championships or camped out in Shiro’s room for tutoring, only _infinitely better._ There are no classes tomorrow, no tests to study for, no distant thoughts of grades and college and a rising swell of high expectations.

Just him and Shiro. Talking, laughing, eating. Relaxing in each other’s presence the way they used to— the way Keith has only ever been able to do with Shiro.

A year and a half of walled silence have left them with plenty to say. Keith tells Shiro all about school and his mother finding him and the house he bought near her neighborhood, hoping to forge some kind of relationship with her again while he plays with the Blades. Shiro talks at length about his surgeries and physical therapy and how he’s adapted to using his new prototype arm during games. About Allura and Coran, their coach. About his new apartment.

At some point, Keith glances down at his phone and finds it’s close to four in the morning. It barely feels like midnight, though.

“Holy shit,” Shiro murmurs, rubbing a hand down his face. He laughs lazily into his palm. “I can’t believe it.”

“We had a lot to talk about,” Keith says, giving Shiro’s leg a playful nudge with his socked foot. He sighs low as he looks down the length of his bed at all the empty dishes and wrappers spread between them. A mess. It’ll take more time and concerted effort to clean up than Keith has in his whole body at the moment.

“We can leave it,” Shiro yawns, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth. “If you want,” he adds, a pink tinge to his sleepy expression. “The other bed’s big enough for us to share.”

Keith smiles and gives Shiro a long, pointed once-over, an eyebrow arching up as he takes him all in. “Is it? I think your shoulders alone are gonna take up most of the mattress.”

“I’ll lay on my side, then,” Shiro promises as he rolls over, flops off of the mattress, and drags himself to the untouched bed. He shoves his duffel to the floor and then tugs off his shirt, baring a broad, muscular back marked with a few deepening bruises. “Do you still kick in your sleep?”

“Don’t think so,” Keith croaks, the words barely registering.

Keith peels off his own shirt, too, as he abandons the dish-covered bed and follows Shiro. He may not toss and turn and kick like he used to, but he _does_ still burn like a furnace.

“Is that from me?” Shiro asks as Keith starts untucking the sheets from the bottom of the bed.

He means the large, purpling bruises over Keith’s ribs, judging by where his gaze falls. “Yeah,” Keith says, still not minding it in the slightest. “Didn’t I give you a couple too?”

“Where your bony elbow hit me,” Shiro snorts, lifting a curled arm to show a small bruise on the underside of his arm. “But nothing like _that_. Sorry,” he apologizes as he tugs down the covers and sinks into the bed.

Keith waves it off and falls beside Shiro, bouncing slightly against the mattress. “Don’t worry about it. You hit harder than I remember,” he praises, eyes shining as he recalls hours of scrimmage and evasion practice, “but I can take it.”

Shiro hums a little affirmative, the corners of his eyes crinkling with a faint, sleepy smile. For a moment, it feels like no time has passed at all— no year lost to worry and fear, no fracture in their friendship, no cold silence. As though they could pick up where they left off and be no less close for the time they’ve been away.

“I, uh, sleep without the arm,” Shiro says in a whisper, looking to Keith as if for permission. “Is that... will it bother you?”

“No.” Keith blinks. “Why would it?”

Shiro only smiles and starts removing his prosthetic— as much of it can be removed, anyway, given the way portions of its base seem to be fused into the scarred flesh just above where his elbow used to be. He lays it on the nightstand, wishes Keith a goodnight, and then flicks out the bedside lamp.

The hotel room plunges into darkness, deep and velvety thanks to the thick curtains drawn over the windows. The bed shifts as Shiro wriggles down to get comfortable, careful not to encroach onto Keith’s side of the bed. He lies within arm’s reach, head half-sunken into his pillow, gorgeous face turned toward Keith.

Keith’s pulse kicks up like it’s the fourth quarter of a tight game. Eventually, his eyes adjust to the dark and through the shadows, he’s able to fuzzily make out the angle of Shiro’s jaw, his sharp cheekbones, the rounded jut of one _very_ cute and slightly oversized ear. Keith can even study the dark, arcing slash of the scar across Shiro’s nose, carved in where the metal of his face mask had failed to protect him. He can stare at the wisps of moonlight-white hair that fall over Shiro’s closed eyes and fanned lashes, silky and soft.

It was stress, Shiro’d said.

The stress of repeated surgeries, the loss of his contract, the lawsuit and the media attention, all of it too much for the bright young man who Keith knew to be more of an introvert than most people ever realized. It had leached the color right out of him, eating away at Shiro while he forced himself to shoulder it all alone.

Keith’s heart breaks for him all over again, but at least with Shiro here he finally has all the pieces of it in one place.

Exhaustion eventually overtakes the thrill of having Shiro so near again and the grinding, gut-churning anger over everything he’d suffered through. Around six, Keith allows his eyes to slip shut, their lashes wet with unshed tears that are more from an overfill of emotion than anything else, and lets sleep take him.

* * *

He wakes sticky, sweaty, and dazed some hours later, annoyingly bright daylight trying to peek around the edges of the heavy drapes across the room. It takes a minute to remember why he isn’t in his own home, in his own bed. It takes far less time to realize that he isn’t alone.

A large, muscular thigh rests wedged between his legs, thick enough to be straddled. It’s all Keith can focus on at first, a fever burning him up as Shiro’s every unconscious little shift nudges him closer to a meltdown.

Gradually, other sensations filter in through the excited haze that clouds his every thought: the eager, answering press within his own boxers; the curve of Shiro’s back under his palm; the large hand resting gently on his hip; the string of drying drool that stretches between Keith and one soft, pillowy pec as he lifts his head.

Oh, and then there’s the hammering on the door.

Kolivan’s voice reaches through the walls in furious snippets, hitting Keith like the cold douse of a gatorade cooler at the end of a winning game. “—almost checkout—don’t make me—your _mother_ —running laps until you’re _my_ age—“

Keith’s never felt his dick wilt so fast.

He jolts up in the bed, kicking off the covers and shaking Shiro awake. “Shiro. Shiro. ShiroShiroShiro,” he hisses, fighting to keep Shiro’s beautiful, sleep-softened expression from distracting him. “Shiro! My coach is outside! And he’s pissed!”

“Kolivan?” Shiro manages through his drowsiness, the name jarring him fully awake within seconds. He curses under his breath as he checks the time, mumbling about it already being five minutes to eleven.

The knocking on the door resumes, Kolivan warning Keith that he’s about to miss his last chance at a flight that leaves before ten p.m.

They scurry to get dressed and grab their things, the whole room in chaos, and Keith is mortified— _mortified_ — when he sees Shiro glance down at his own chest and wonderingly wipe away a slick, gleaming spot of leftover drool.

Facing Kolivan suddenly seems like a mercy in comparison.

Keith wrenches the door open and slinks out under Kolivan’s withering stare, shoulders drawn up as his overbearing coach launches into a lecture on how Keith apparently _needs_ a roommate like Regris to keep him timely. And when Shiro shuffles out behind him, head hanging, Kolivan halts mid-word.

“It’s my fault, sir,” Shiro nervously offers, skittish of meeting Kolivan’s wide-eyed glare head on. “I kept Keith up all night and—“

“No, it’s my fault,” Keith interrupts. “I—“

“That’s enough,” Kolivan states, tone both final and weary. One weathered hand pinches at his brow. Somehow, his heavy, disappointed sigh is worse than his lecturing.

“I should’ve known. When I saw you staring at him so intently the whole game, so eager to be brutally tackled, I should’ve known. I’d just assumed it was...” He makes a vague gesture, a hand twisting through the air as he hunts for the correct words. “Rivalry. A grudge-match. Not, erm... _carnal desire_ —“

“W-Wait, no,” Keith starts, suddenly aflame with a flush that sears from the tops of his ears all the way down his belly. He looks to Shiro in silent, desperate apology, wishing he’d blown off Kolivan and just shelled out for a miserably late flight instead.

“Keith, we can discuss your fraternization later. I’m more concerned with catching our flight home, and at this rate we’re going to make it to the airport with only—“ Kolivan pauses to check his watch, the corner of his mouth twitching as his frown deepens, “— two hours to spare.”

“I actually need to go too,” Shiro sheepishly cuts in, mostly speaking to Keith. “Allura has the team bus waiting for me. Sorry, Keith. I’ll call you? Text?”

The hopeful way he asks briefly allows Keith to forget the present horror of Kolivan’s assumption they’d been fucking.

“Yeah. Please,” Keith calls as Shiro slowly backs toward the stairwell, no doubt aiming to avoid getting caught in an elevator with Kolivan. Keith doesn’t blame him in the slightest; he’d opt to sprint down ten flights of stairs, too, if it meant being spared the coals he’s about to be raked over. “Be safe, Shiro!”

“You too,” he waves, smiling soft and crooked, and Keith wishes more than anything they were headed to the same place.

The elevator ride is like a descent into hell, Kolivan choosing first to castigate Keith for blowing off his wake-up call, nearly missing checkout, and making half the team worry that he was dead in his hotel room.

“What you choose to do on your own time is your business,” Kolivan mutters as they cross the lobby at a brisk clip. “And whom you keep company with. But I don’t want to see this affect your performance against the Arusian Lions,” he cautions, expression a mix of stern practicality and genuine care. “And the next time you use one of our games for a tryst, try to wrap it up before nine a.m.”

The ride to the airport is worse, somehow. Keith tries to explain to Kolivan— and the handful of other Blades catching the same shuttle to the same flight back home— how _un_ sexual his night was and only ends up painting a bigger target on his back.

“We had a good reunion at the stadium and wanted to keep talking. That’s all,” he says, kicking off a two-minute rant that speeds up every time Keith catches Zethrid and Ezor snickering behind their hands. “ _Nothing_ happened. Nothing! All we did was catch up and gorge on room service, and we stayed up so late that we both slept through our alarms and the wake-up call. And we only slept in the same bed because of the dishes laying all over mine—“

Kolivan snorts, any ground Keith had made in convincing him that Shiro’s stay in his room was innocent utterly lost.

It’s Zethrid who leans forward over the back of Keith’s seat to say, “So after we beat your high school sweetheart’s team, you took him back to your hotel? Keith, I didn’t know you had it in you,” she praises, slugging him in the shoulder. “And after he spent four quarters smearing you across the field, too.”

“We weren’t _sweethearts,_ ” Keith corrects, rolling his eyes, but the protest is weak.

He gives up, hiding his face in his drawn-up hood and pretending to sleep for the rest of the trip. It doesn’t matter what his team thinks, honestly, and Keith knows the teasing is part of their camaraderie. He has Shiro’s texts and calls to look forward to again, and that’s worth whatever it looks like to the people around him.

The first thing Shiro sends is an apology for getting him in trouble with his coach. The next is,

_Shiro🖤: So..._

_Shiro🖤: Were you really looking at me with “”carnal desire”” during the game? lol_

And Keith... isn’t sure how to answer that. He opts for honesty, as nerve-wracking as it is. He’s waited too long to do anything less.

_Keith: i was looking at you the way anyone would if they saw their high school crush again but bigger and thicker and twice as hot_

_Shiro🖤:_ 😮

_Shiro 🖤: you had a crush on me?_

_Keith: shiroooo...... obviously. I followed you around with puppy eyes_

_Shiro 🖤: I figured you were just naturally puppy-eyed_

_Shiro 🖤: And you really think I’m hot? Even with the hair and the scar and the arm?_

Keith exhales hard through his nose, pink-cheeked and typing furiously.

 _Keith: i said what I said_ 😤

He adds a cropped screenshot of his earlier text with 'twice as hot' underlined. He briefly considers sending the link to his Takashi Shirogane thirst twitter as proof, but honesty has its limits. Then he slumps in his seat, at peace with himself despite the anxious twisting in his gut.

There's a pause of a few minutes before Keith feels his phone buzz with a new text.

_Shiro🖤: Keith, wow..._

_Shiro🖤: When I first saw you yesterday I definitely short-circuited a few times. I didn't know what to say for a lot of reasons but at least 5 were bc of how good you looked_

_Shiro🖤: I'm glad you stuck with wearing the visor, too. It still suits you :)_

_Shiro🖤: Also, I'm not sure I'd have been able to function on the field whatsoever if you weren't wearing it._

They text on and off right up until Keith gets home and sends him a video chat instead.

While Keith microwaves himself some dinner, Shiro takes him on a tour around his apartment. It’s a luxe highrise with a stunning view, all ash-grey wooden floors and minimal white furniture— a far cry from Keith’s dark, woodsy craftsman, sparsely furnished with whatever odd pieces he liked that weren’t too expensive. Shiro shows off his shower and his soaking tub, patiently holding up every one of his bath bombs and bubble bars to the camera and describing them to Keith’s satisfaction. He walks Keith from his balcony to his kitchen, and then to his bedroom. 

It’s filled with whites and soft greys, interrupted with pops of color from Shiro’s Garrison hoodies and Arusian Lions branded workout clothes still sitting in a hamper. At its center is a bed covered in all white and silver linens that Keith will _definitely_ be picturing Shiro on later tonight.

“Still think I look good?” Keith double checks as he slumps down onto his couch, worn out from the game and weary from the trip home. He’s frumpy in an oversized shirt, his hair raked up into a messy, borderline-greasy ponytail, with a plate of his mom’s reheated kofte sitting half-eaten in his lap.

“ _So_ good,” Shiro confirms, shy despite having admitted as much in his earlier texts. “Very cute. Whatever you’re eating looks good, too. Wish I was there.”

They talk late into the night again, Keith’s eyelids steadily drooping to the comforting sound of Shiro’s voice. It’s only been hours since they were together, but he already misses Shiro’s presence, his warmth, his smell. Everything about him.

They text every day afterward. All day. And night.

Keith’s teammates tease him for bolting to the sidelines whenever they have a two-minute break during practice, knowing it’s Shiro he’s desperate to talk to; Kolivan and his trainers turn it into another opportunity to motivate Keith, timing him as he sprints eighty yards just to hurriedly respond to whatever meme Shiro’s sent him.

Krolia is even worse, constantly linking him photos and screengrabs of Shiro mid-tackle, all power and clingy uniform pants. She’s _deeply_ curious about the boy who’d reached out to her son when he was lost and alone, taking Keith under his wing and helping him grow strong. And, luckily for her, Keith is more than ready and willing to gush about Shiro.

It’s all worth it to have his best friend back, though— this time with the added bonus of knowing Shiro finds him attractive, too. And it’s a strange, fuzzy line to walk after so many years spent reminding himself that he and Shiro are only best friends. Keith’s not quite sure what to do with himself the first time Shiro calls him _pretty_. Or when he talks about how much he wishes Keith were beside him before biting back the words that would follow. The idea that Shiro wants _him_ the same way Keith has for the better part of five years is certainly… motivating.

The first time Keith commits to sending Shiro a workout pic, he’s blushing all the way down to his navel. He pulls his hair loose from its tie just for this shot and peels his tank top up to show off the defined muscle laid over his abdomen, leanly built for endurance and speed. Still sweaty, still breathing hard, he snaps a picture of his reflection in the full-length mirror and texts it to Shiro before he can chicken out.

It seems like a good way to take their shy foray into romance a step forward. As much as Keith thrives on Shiro’s flirtatious compliments and sweet words, he’s been pining after him too long to wait patiently for more.

An hour later, Shiro replies with a shot of himself in a mirror, too. The sinfully tight shirt he wears is so damp it’s nearly translucent; one hand has its hem pushed up his front to expose even more bare skin than Keith had, the undersides of full pecs peeking out. Shiro goes a touch further by hooking his metal thumb into the waistband of his thin sweats, revealing a stretch of his hip and the stark, v-shaped furrow that dips over his pelvis.

Keith promptly excuses himself from the group workout and flees to the showers, holding the picture of Shiro in mind as he furiously strokes himself off with a desperation he hasn’t felt since high school, when he was a composite mess of hormones and yearning and perfect agony from close proximity to Shiro.

It helps make the distance between them feel shorter, somehow, even if the separation still gnaws at Keith like the whittling of a blade. Every day they send each other sleepy, half-dressed pictures and teasing poses post-workout, and Keith wonders endlessly what it would be like if they were in the same city, the same time zone, the same half of the country.

Shiro’s gifts resume through the mail, a pile of boxes waiting on Keith’s doorstep when he arrives home after practice one evening. There’s a small mountain of spicy-sweet candies and his favorite snacks, along with a new extra-firm pillow and a white and grey faux fur blanket from Shiro’s living room that Keith had once admired while they were video chatting. Shiro sends him a jersey, too— one of his own, the very same one from their pre-season game. 

Keith makes sure to wear it (and little else) the next time they talk, the brush of jersey mesh over his bare skin sinfully smooth; he skims a hand along his inner thighs while he listens to the low, sleepy rumble of Shiro’s voice, halfway imagining that it’s Shiro’s touch he feels.

And in turn, Keith sends Shiro his biggest Marmora hoodie, well-worn and softened through many cycles in the washing machine. Where it was always big enough to swallow Keith like a cozy blanket, on Shiro it fits just right. He sends pictures back to Keith of him wearing it at workouts and out on the town with Allura, like he’s carrying a part of Keith with him wherever he goes.

And once the season opens, Keith eagerly counts down to the Lions vs. Blades rematch and the chance it brings to see Shiro. He’ll make a fool out of himself in front of his whole team, he’s sure, but it’ll be worth it to touch Shiro again.

First, there are other teams to face: the Balmera Boulders, the Olkari Stranglevine, the Naxzela Purple Wave. The Marmora Blades cut down every team they face off against, climbing in the rankings straight away. The Arusian Lions win all of their early games too, with one notable and miserable exception.

The Lions’ face-off with the Daibazaal Imperials is hyped everywhere, the pressure upon Shiro’s first confrontation with his old team mounting exponentially. Their nightly video chats take on a pervasive, unrelenting air of worry, and Shiro anxiously confides that half the reason he’d switched to defense was to avoid going head-to-head with Sendak again.

A thousand miles from Shiro, Keith doesn’t know what to do to comfort him. To protect him. To keep the all-too-understandable fear of Sendak somehow breaking him a second time at bay. He tries, for all the good it does, and if not for the Blades having a game earlier on the same day, he’d have already blown off his duties to the Blades and flown down to be there for him in person.

Things being what they are, Keith watches from home with his mom by his side, what little excitement he’d felt at his own team’s win completely faded by the time the Lions’ kick-off rolls around.

As soon as the game starts, it’s clear that it won’t end well. Just sharing the same stadium with Sendak rattles Shiro, his nervous pacing and fidgeting easily noticed by the cameras, commented on by the sportscasters, mocked by Imperials fans across social media.

For the first quarter, Coran doesn’t even put Shiro into play. But once their other linebacker is injured in a dogpiling for the ball, they have no choice; Shiro takes the field to a deafening chorus of boos from Daibazaal’s home stadium. The body language from the Imperials’ offensive line reads loud and clear, and Keith can’t help but draw himself to the edge of his seat and clutch the couch cushions hard enough to leave indents.

He wants to leave. He wants to look away, every moment of Shiro’s obvious hurt and discomfort unbearable to witness. He wants to storm his way to the Daibazaal Imperials’ stadium and whisk Shiro away from it all— after cold-clocking Sendak, of course.

The huddled Imperials break, more than one of them laughing as they line up across the line of scrimmage from Shiro. Only Lotor, the Imperials’ quarterback, looks anything close to professional as they set up their offense, the frown behind his face mask nearly as stark as Shiro’s.

The offense practically rolls right over the Lions, racking up yards and first downs like they’re playing against an unranked college team. Shiro is the heart of the Lions’ defense, the beacon the rest of the line usually turns to for guidance, and right now he’s stricken with so much uncertainty and fear that he’s questioning his every move. Flinching. Hanging back. 

Krolia squeezes his hand tight in support as Shiro manages to make an interception and then fumbles it just as quickly, locking up tight as soon as he realizes how close he’s veered to the Imperials’ sideline. Where Sendak and the rest of the defense watch and wait, lurking like spectres along the periphery of every play.

Allura fares almost as poorly as Shiro does. Sendak is a juggernaut and the rest of the Imperials’ defense are no less vicious. In the first half alone, she gets sacked multiple times. The Lions’ offensive line crumples around her, weaker with every passing play, until she finally takes a hit that leaves her limping from the field with the help of two teammates. The second string quarterback, Romelle, takes over

It’s a bloodbath. A blowout of sixty-eight to six. The loss sends the Arusian Lions spinning. The team takes a dive in the rankings. Doubts swirl around the team as their performance is picked over ad nauseum, paraded as an example of _exactly_ the sort of thing teams were worried about in taking on Takashi Shirogane.

And Shiro… Shiro takes it hard. It’s not so much the loss itself as how it unfolded. What it _did_ to him. How the team suffered for his own stumbling.

Keith does his best to console him over the phone, but it’s not enough for either of them. He wants to hold Shiro, to massage the ache from his shoulders, to kiss him until the frustration and helplessness fade. But all he can do is listen to the shallow, shuddering breaths Shiro makes when he’s trying to hold back panic and tears, murmur comforting reassurances, and listen when Shiro finally feels up to talking about it.

Keith waits until Shiro is in better spirits to admit, “So, I’ve been thinking of ways to fuck up Sendak when my team plays the Imperials next month. I can afford a personal foul or two.”

Shiro immediately hangs his head and gives a weak laugh. And then, absolutely serious, he adds, “Keith, _do not_. I'm flattered, really, but it isn't worth you doing something that might get you suspended. I'd rather see you have a stellar season."

"You _are_ worth it," Keith mumbles, sleepy. "And I can find a way to trash him without getting in too much trouble. I'll kick his ass _and_ win."

Shiro is so soft as he looks into the camera, worn out from the dire turn of events and all the criticism that had come after. But he smiles and nestles closer to the laptop perched by his pillow until he's all Keith can see, almost like they're face-to-face. "I don't doubt it."

But before that can happen, there’s a far more important game to contend with: the Marmora Blades vs. Arusian Lions rematch, and this time it counts.

It’s the first time they’ll be sharing the same field again, breathing the same air. It’ll be their first chance in the busy fall season to see each other again, to touch, to cling close and get the tactile comfort they’ve both sorely missed.

The game is being hosted in Arus this time, rather than a neutral stadium in-between. Keith buzzes with excitement the whole trip, eager to visit Shiro on his home turf— even if it’s going to give the Lions an advantage. They text each other nonstop, all teasing trash-talk interspersed with heartfelt encouragement and praise.

And then there’s whatever Shiro’s doing.

_Shiro🖤: Feel like making a bet?_

_Shiro🖤: When the Lions win, you owe me a kiss 😚_

Keith nearly walks into Antok’s back as they filter into the locker room under the stadium, the thought of kissing Shiro filling his belly with hungry, needy sparks.

_Keith: more like, when the BLADES win you owe ME a kiss_

This time around, Keith’s entire team is well aware of his feelings for Shiro. Even if they’re not exactly official, it’s impossible to miss the way he gets distracted while viewing Lions’ game tapes or the beaming smiles he reserves for his phone.

His teammates are relentless in both their teasing and encouragement, all of them admittedly as happy for Keith as they are annoyed by the gooey love-eyes he makes whenever Shiro is mentioned. Even Kolivan joins in, deadpan as he jokingly suggests sitting Keith out in favor of letting Ezor deal with Shirogane.

Zethrid and Antok whistle low as Shiro does warmup stretches on the far sideline, impressively flexible despite his size and muscle, and noisily encourage Keith to show off in return.

He does. With the balance of an acrobat, Keith lifts one long leg overhead with total ease, gloves fingers folded over the spiky bottom of his cleat as he does a vertical split.

He doesn’t miss the way Shiro does a double-take from across the field, clearly taking notice. So Keith stretches a little further, demonstrating just how flexibly he can bend.

“Enough peacocking,” Kolivan intervenes once Keith’s made his point, waving a clipboard.

But it continues even after the kick-off and that first snap, Shiro sending him winks through his faceguard and Keith making sure to brush lightly against him as they take their respective places on the field. And the tackling? It’s even better now with neither of them half as shy or uncertain.

Keith doesn’t make it easy for Shiro. He doesn’t think either of them could stand it if he did. But he doesn’t flinch away from the impact when Shiro takes him down, either, almost welcoming the sudden lack of gravity, the way they tumble together through the air or across the ground, the sweet crush that comes after.

Shiro is back on his game, without a doubt, spry and merciless as he chases Keith forty and fifty yards before heaving him to the earth. He’s playful, too— as they’re tangled together and piled on by teammates, his gloved hands stray to dangerous places, holding Keith tight by the hip or cradling over his belly, feeling up the muscle hiding somewhere underneath.

Shiro laughs as he and Keith help haul each other up to their feet, two sets of hands now roaming over each other whenever it feels like the cameras aren’t paying them any mind. And the look on Shiro’s face when Keith gives his ass a pat after a particularly good defensive play is priceless, all ablush under his helmet and crooked smile around his mouthguard.

Keith’s at the top of his form, too, although that’s not to say it doesn’t come without a mighty struggle. Maintaining his concentration is nearly impossible when each tackle brings them so wonderfully, agonizingly close— on his knees with his face planted into the grass and Shiro folded over his back, or face-to-face with Shiro sprawled atop him, or pressed into each other at every seam under the weight of a dogpile.

And between all the shut downs by Shiro’s unbudging defense and the relentless drives Allura leads on offense, the Blades can’t quite hold their ground on either position.

As the stadium rocks with cheers, the Lions win by a margin of twelve points.

Even as Keith tugs off his helmet where he stands on the field and lets the other Blades’ condolences wash over him, he’s thrilled. _Really._ Shiro earned the win and needed it too, and he’s aglow with sweat and victory where he and the other Lions flood the gridiron to celebrate, as they should.

And Keith is content just to watch from afar, letting Shiro and his team enjoy their moment in the limelight of victory— until Shiro picks him out of the nearest clump of Blades and beckons him over, smiling bright.

Keith bounds to him without a second thought, only slightly nervous as the crowded Lions part for him. Shiro’s hands settle heavy on his shoulders, squeezing and shaking the padding hidden under his jersey.

“You were amazing, Keith,” he praises over the din of the stadium. “As usual.”

Shiro can’t seem to help himself from lifting his hand to palm up the length of Keith’s neck and into the sweaty tangle of his loose hair, a flex running slow down the thick column of Shiro’s throat at the languid, longing touch.

“You, too,” Keith almost has to shout back, the announcers still droning on about something or other. Shiro shines under the bright stadium lights, mesmerizing to look at, more beautiful than anyone Keith’s ever laid eyes on.

Shiro’s warm, proud smile slowly turns smug, cocksure in a way that raises goosebumps under Keith’s uniform. His gloved fingers make themselves comfortable at Keith’s nape, a steeled thumb running gently over the delicate skin just below the juncture of his jaw. 

“And I think you owe me something after this,” Shiro adds, angling Keith’s head up the slightest bit as he leans in, close enough for his warm breath to ghost along the shell of Keith’s ear with every word.

Keith is too far gone to wait, though. He _can’t possibly_. Not with the oily, silky heat currently coursing under his skin, begging for something more than breathy words and a delicate touch. Not with Shiro so close and so tempting, six-foot-four-inches of charm and glistening muscle. And certainly not with Shiro’s sultry grey eyes pinned on him, piercing him, steady even as the man himself begins to draw back, ready to leave with his team for the locker room.

Keith _can’t_ let him go. 

He grabs a fistful of Shiro’s jersey and tugs him down, closing the small gap between them in one fluid snap. Their mouths meet in a bruising crush that instantly melts into something softer, needier, more quietly desperate.

In front of Kolivan and everyone, Keith makes good on their bet.

Supportive whistles and hollers rise from the players surrounding them, the two teams joined together in their excitement to see Keith and Shiro finally act on their weeks of flirting. There’s a smattering of applause, too, though it’s slightly overshadowed by one thundering clap directly attributable to Antok.

It’s only as they part for a much-needed breath that the full reality of it settles in— Keith just kissed Shiro in the middle of the 50-yard line with some sixty thousand people in the stands as witnesses and a dozen cameras still rolling. It's going to be a media frenzy, and he's dragged Shiro right into the fray.

But before Keith can panic or be swooped upon by the sports reporters currently staring on in open shock, Shiro throws an arm around his waist and starts steering him off the field. The rest of the Lions amass around them like a living shield and cover, blocking the two of them any other prying eyes on the field. Just before he’s lost among the pink and blue uniforms of the Arusian Lions, Keith catches a glimpse of Coran jogging over to Kolivan, the two of them swapping exasperated looks as they confer.

“Shit. Fuck. I’m sorry,” Keith whispers as they're swept down fluorescent-lit hallways toward the locker room. “I wasn’t thinking. Shiro, I—”

Strong fingers curl around his arm and angle him aside, pressed tight against the poured concrete wall while the rest of the Lions continue to flow past them.

"Keith," he interrupts, glove scratching light over Keith's cheeks as he cups his face. "You don't have anything to be sorry for. I thought it was pretty romantic, honestly," he adds, grinning crookedly.

Silvery grey eyes peer at Keith like he’s _everything_ , stirring up a hundred fluttering thoughts and hopes and wishes in the space all around his heart. And then Shiro leans in and kisses Keith, soft and purposeful and just the two of them, this time.

Keith can feel Shiro’s growing smile, the stroke of thumbs over his cheekbones, the press of his thickly padded body as they awkwardly push together.

The kiss breaks too soon. They always will, Keith figures.

“I was too nervous to ask earlier,” Shiro whispers where he crowds into Keith’s space, “but... would you come stay with me? At my place? Instead of a hotel?”

“Of course,” Keith murmurs, still dreamy from another taste of Shiro. He can’t imagine wanting to be anywhere else. “I’d love to.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where the E-rating comes into effect and with more detail than in the original thread, I'm sorry 🙈  
> Also sorry for any typos!

Though Keith is a Blade alone in the Lions’ locker room, he doesn’t feel unwelcome. Shiro’s teammates are sportsmanlike enough to treat Keith with the respect of a worthy opponent, and their being fresh off of a hard fought win surely doesn’t hurt. He does notice the sly, sideways glances that the two of them get, though. And the number of Lions shouldering close to pat Shiro on the back and congratulate him, either on the game or the dramatic kiss that marked its ending.

Keith is still hovering in Shiro’s shadow when Coran pops in with his duffel bag and a cheery smile.

“Your personal effects, Twenty-One,” the Lions’ coach chirps, affable as he hands the bag over. “Recovered from the Marmora locker room, courtesy of Coach Kolivan. He assumed you’d be needing them for tonight.”

“Uh, thanks,” Keith answers, lips pushed together as he tries to think of anything better to say to that. “He’s right.”

He and Shiro start changing into casual, discreet sweatpants and hoodies, skipping the showers in the interest of making a clean getaway from any of the media waiting outside to ask about what the hell happened on the field. They say a few hasty goodbyes, Shiro and Allura making plans for next week while Keith runs his field gear back to Kolivan for safekeeping.

Shiro leads him by the hand down the stadium’s winding, empty halls, giggling louder every time Keith shushes him. They slip out a service entrance around the back of the building and dash through the darkened parking lot, still holding hands. It reminds him of skipping school— something Shiro had encouraged on only the rarest and most important of occasions, like free donut days and air shows— and spending lazy afternoons at Shiro’s side, goofing off after weeks of hard work.

The drive to Shiro’s apartment is only fifteen minutes, under normal circumstances, but the post-game traffic ups it to an hour. Keith doesn’t mind it in the slightest.

He spends a few minutes admiring the luxe interior of Shiro’s car, which is certainly an upgrade from his aunt’s old vespa. The dark leather is clean and soft to the touch. The cabin smells faintly of candied yuzu peels, prompting Keith to hunt through the compartments for Shiro’s snack stash.

And as he pops gummy fruits back and waits through the traffic to the soft sound of Shiro singing along to the radio, Keith finds ways to content himself. He toys with Shiro’s metallic hand, hooking his slim fingers around prosthetic ones, and takes comfort in being able to reach out and touch him again. He smooths his palm up Shiro’s impressively thick bicep, thoughts wandering to how they’d look caged around him, and resists the powerful urge to reach down and stroke along his nearest thigh. Only barely, but he does.

And at a long red light, Keith stretches up, whispers Shiro’s name, and catches him in another kiss as soon as his head turns, already tired of waiting. It’s short, hungrier than it is sweet, and over as soon as the light ahead blinks back to green.

“You just have to be patient a little longer,” Shiro murmurs, his hand seeking Keith’s in the dark and clasping it tight.

Keith squirms in his seat, clinging desperately to what thin threads of self-control haven’t yet snapped. More than once he eyes the backseat and contemplates asking Shiro to pull over; the seats are pitched deep and the windows are tinted, and at the moment, that’d suffice.

But he’s restless to step foot in Shiro’s apartment. To use his shower, lather up in his tasty-looking soaps, and slip into something from Shiro’s closet. To see his bed in person and feel the silky-fine sheets for himself. To have Shiro all to himself, uninterrupted, until sometime tomorrow afternoon.

As soon as they're in the elevator of Shiro’s fancy white-stone apartment building, Keith wrenches him in close for another kiss. Shiro’s soft moaning is infinitely better to listen to than the bland music droning from some speaker overhead; Keith grins as he’s pressed into the mirror-finish of a polished elevator wall, stretched up onto his tiptoes by the powerful thigh pushed up between his legs. 

They stumble sideways down the halls once they hit Shiro’s floor, stepping on each other’s feet rather than tolerating a sliver of separation. Shiro blindly fumbles with the lock, and as soon as the door swings open, they spill into the apartment in a flurry of dropped bags and limbs shrugging out of hoodies.

"Do you want," Shiro starts before interrupting himself with another kiss, "some food first? Or," he kisses Keith again, longer and deeper, "something to drink?"

"I wanna see your bed," Keith rasps back, plastering himself to Shiro's front. He's impatient for anything but feeling Shiro in all the ways he's been deprived of for far too long. _"Now."_

Effortlessly, Shiro wraps his hands around Keith’s waist, hoists him up, and carries him down the nearby hall. Something low down in Keith’s belly stirs in excitement; between his tightly clenched thighs, he can feel the solidity of Shiro’s core and the flex of toned abs underneath, so much muscle shifting with every purposeful step.

Shiro's bed is everything Keith had ever imagined— a white and silver shrine of marshmallow plushness, the sheets buttery soft underneath him. And it’s all the better with a strong, unyielding body crushing him into the pillow-top mattress. It's the realization of a thousand hazy daydreams he’s had about Shiro since they first met, since Keith first felt his weight atop him on the field, since he first started falling in love.

Shiro smothers him in the gentlest of manners, a broad hand dragging slow up the length of Keith’s side. Too gentle, really, when all Keith wants is to feel Shiro’s weight all around and inside of him, manhandled the way he is on the gridiron— Shiro’s burly arms hooked around him, their bodies rocked together, bent at odd angles as he’s held down in place.

They struggle together to wrest off their remaining clothing, careless of where it falls. It’s far from the first time Keith’s seen Shiro naked— they changed and showered in the same locker rooms for a season, once, but that was _years_ ago. Shiro is broad, scarred, perfectly warm to the touch. Keith’s hands rove unchecked, trying to feel as much of Shiro as he can all at once. He glides his palms up thick, flexing arms and over the span of wide shoulders, thumbs tracing the strong lines of built-up muscle and the flexing column of his throat. He admires the perfect cut of Shiro’s jaw, the delicate brown of his nipples, the cute little mole just above his hip.

There’s _so_ much of Shiro to appreciate, and all Keith wants to do is lay here and worship every inch of him until the stars blink out and the universe goes cold. With a dreamy little sigh, he palms olver Shiro’s full chest and slings a long leg over the small of his back, leveraging it to bring their hips closer..

Keith grins as Shiro kisses a hungry, mouthy trail all down his throat in return, no doubt leaving marks behind. Scraping teeth and soft lips hit a ticklish spot in the crook of his neck, leaving Keith squirming under Shiro's heavy body and huffing out a breathy, airy laugh.

Lube-slicked metal fingers skirt lightly around the rim of his entrance before gently pushing inward, one at a time. They’re longer and thicker than Keith’s digits, and cool to the touch, too— or maybe they only feel cool compared to the inferno currently suffusing every inch of his insides. Either way, Keith is hyper aware of every nudge and curl as Shiro slowly eases him open, squirming up to meet the press of Shiro’s hand once the two fingers feel sorely lacking.

“That’s good,” Keith bites out in between sloppy kisses. With a needy whine, he wraps his hand around his own glistening-tipped dick and gives it a few hurried pumps, arching himself into Shiro’s slow scissoring. “I’m good, Shiro. Don’t— don’t make me wait. I _can’t._ ”

“I know the feeling,” Shiro rumbles as he works a third finger in alongside the other two, grey eyes going heavy-lidded as Keith moans and writhes under him. The flush of color across his cheeks and down his plump chest deepens, rosy and pretty under the sheen of sweat rising on his skin.

The sudden withdrawl of Shiro’s fingers leaves Keith whimpering and twisting the sheets, sides heaving.

“Couldn’t help but notice earlier that you’ve gotten pretty flexible,” Shiro murmurs as he hooks his hands behind Keith’s knees and practically bends him in half, spreading him wider.

The corner of Keith’s mouth curls as he recalls lifting his leg overhead before the start of the game, showing off for Shiro alone. He can’t help but be a little proud that the sight must’ve stuck with Shiro. “Yeah. Can’t wait to put it to good use.”

The slicked-up tip of Shiro’s cock bumps against Keith’s rim as he lines himself up, leaving little dabs and strings of oily lube wherever it brushes. And all Keith can think about is how _big_ it looks even in Shiro’s broad hands, full and blushing with excitement. And the sticky warmth left behind where Shiro’s length briefly slaps against the underside of his thigh, bobbing heavily whenever it isn’t being held. And how soon it’ll be inside of him, where it no doubt longs to be.

His soft little grin lingers even as Shiro makes that first push, a firm hand carefully guiding the head of his cock into Keith’s pliant body. Keith bites down into his bottom lip through it, eyes squeezed shut as inch after wonderful, agonizing inch sinks into him, the entirely of Shiro’s length gradually disappearing out of sight.

Keith can barely move for the fullness of it. Every little shift reminds him just how much of Shiro is buried within him, stretching him to the very edges of what he can handle. Every twitch of Shiro’s cock takes Keith’s breath away, makes him whine, leaves him digging his nails into Shiro’s biceps as he clings to him for dear life.

Holding Shiro within him satisfies an ache Keith’s lived with for years, filling him up in ways and places that he doubts anyone else ever could. 

It’s even better once Shiro starts moving, although Keith still keens with loss at every withdrawal, hating to be left empty for even a moment. Each returning stroke is bliss, though, driving Keith deeper into the pillowtop mattress and rattling the sturdy frame underneath them. His thighs quiver and tremble under Shiro’s grip; his thoughts go hazier and hazier, vision swimming as the pleasure mounts in him like a fever building to a break.

Keith is still in awe of all of it. Shiro bent over him, fucking him, beads of sweat dripping down his chest and onto Keith. The crooked little smile he gives when Keith reaches up to cup his cheek, overwhelmed with affection. The sheer size of Shiro’s cock and how _perfectly_ it fits inside of him.

And between the lightly calloused grip of the larger, stronger hand now curled around his dick and the way every thrust sends sparks shooting through his belly and behind his eyes, Keith finally comes undone.

He cries out Shiro’s name and shudders against the sweat-soaked sheets underneath his back. His hands spasm around Shiro’s shoulders, nails digging in deep as he grasps for some kind of anchor to carry him through the wave of toe-curling pleasure that’s almost, _almost_ too much.

A spot of warmth lands on his own cheek, right at the corner of his opened mouth; it courses slow down Keith’s jaw before dripping to join the rest of the milky white that paints his chest. “I want yours inside me,” he gasps out, needing it just as badly as he’s needed everything else from Shiro.

“K-Keith, _fuck_ ,” Shiro growls, his prosthetic hand clenching tight where it grips the mattress beside Keith’s head. His rutting turns wild, what measure of patience he’d still had slipping away at the sight of Keith sweaty and come-painted; all Keith can do is hang on through it, trembling legs wrapping tight around Shiro as he’s pounded down into the mattress.

Shiro finishes with a forceful slam of his hips that leaves him lodged in Keith down to the very stem, dick twitching against Keith’s overstimulated prostate. With a groan, his hips roll once, twice more, lazily riding out every last wave of release. And then he slumps forward, catching himself on bent elbows before he can crush Keith _completely,_ but… 

“Mm. It’s okay,” Keith whispers in between panting breaths, encouraging Shiro to relax the rest of the way. His weight is a comfort, really, and the give of the pillowtop is enough that Keith still has plenty of room to breathe underneath him.

Shiro moans low where his face is buried in the rumpled comforter just above and to the right of Keith’s head, the remaining tension of supporting himself slowly fading from bunched muscles. Keith raises his chin and lets it rest against the sloping muscle of Shiro’s trapezius, sighing blissfully.

Languid warmth steeps through Keith’s veins, calming him into a drowsy stupor. He can’t pinpoint having ever felt a moment of satisfaction as pure as this— utterly blanketed in _Shiro,_ achingly full of him, free to finally act on the feelings he’s carried with him for years.

Sluggishly, Keith lifts a leg and hooks it over Shiro, his calf resting somewhere across the backs of Shiro’s thighs. He doesn’t want Shiro getting any ideas about going anywhere— not even to the other side of the bed. While the cock inside of him softens, Keith leaves sleepy kisses up Shiro’s shoulder, paying extra attention to the spots where his nails left sore red marks.

“Wanted to do that for a long time,” Shiro eventually mumbles, shifting slightly so he isn’t facedown in the blankets. His hips happen to nudge forward; Keith whimpers and reflexively pushes back into them, the first flickers of arousal reigniting.

“Not as long as I have,” Keith reminds him, smiling as they twist and turn until they’re face-to-face again, able to kiss slow and gentle over each other’s bruised lips. “Although I always imagined it happening on a football field. Or a locker room.”

Shiro’s laugh is soft, his grey eyes sparkling. “Was the bed okay, though?”

“It’s perfect. I’m gonna feel like I’m sleeping on a cloud tonight,” Keith answers, fanning his arms out to luxuriate in how soft and fine Shiro’s whole bed feels.

“I wouldn’t count on it.” Shiro’s smile is mischievous, as playful as Keith remembers him from high school. “The sleeping part, anyway.”

Keith hums. He rocks his hips into Shiro’s warm weight, heat rising in his cheeks at the low-pitched moan Shiro lets out right in his ear. “Sounds good, Shiro. I can sleep when I get home.”

Gently, Keith braces a hand against Shiro’s shoulder and snakes his leg down around Shiro’s. And then he turns years of experience in being pinned and afternoons spent helping out at his mom’s self-defense classes on Shiro.

It helps that Shiro isn’t expecting it in the slightest. It helps that Keith is a lot stronger than he remembers, too.

In an instant, Shiro’s laid out on his back. Keith rolls with him, gasping out as he drops down hard on Shiro’s hips, the dick still buried in him already feeling fuller and firmer than it had a minute ago.

Large hands grip Keith’s waist, fingers nearly meeting around his middle. Shiro stares up at him with wide eyes and an admiring, half-dazed smile. There’s a slick, sticky mess down his front, transferred from where he’d laid to rest atop Keith; it makes his pecs glisten, hopelessly tempting touch.

So Keith does, cupping Shiro’s chest and dragging a thumb over the delicate brown of one come-glazed nipple; it sends Shiro’s whole body bowing up under him, whimpering Keith’s name low as he reaches up to palm the other one.

Keith _likes_ hearing his name murmured like that— breathless and pleading, the usual smooth timbre of Shiro’s voice fraying all the way through. Shiro repeats it like a litany as Keith slowly rolls his hips forward, every syllable filled with praise and longing; he practically _screams_ it once Keith works himself up into a brisk, bouncing ride that’ll probably leave bruises along the backs of his thighs.

And it’s Keith’s name that he sighs when he comes again, head thrown back against the backdrop of soft white and silver.

* * *

They _do_ sleep, eventually.

Keith startles awake with his cheek planted on Shiro’s chest, his lovebite-riddled skin tacky to the touch. Around them, the bed lies devastated. The comforter is half-strewn on the floor. The fitted sheet is tugged loose from its moorings at the bed’s four corners. The linens are filthy with the smell of sweat and sex.

And it only excites Keith anew to survey everything they’d done together last night— like the little half-moons that dust Shiro’s biceps, the faint marks of teeth that ring one nipple and pepper his shoulder, the dark hickeys that line the column of his throat and trail down his chest. He’s wearing plenty of bruises of his own, too. Most are in the shape of Shiro’s hands and strong fingers, sore, pleasant reminders of being gripped tight and held in place.

With limbs still clumsy-heavy from sleep, Keith clambers between the lazy spread of Shiro’s thick thighs and stretches out atop him, basking in his comforting heat. He nuzzles kisses up Shiro’s front, slowly rousing him. Against his belly, Shiro’s soft cock begins to grow hard, insistent in its need for more friction, more pressure.

Keith is hard again, too. Almost painfully so, his dick jumping every time its head brushes against the inside of Shiro’s thigh or nudges against his balls.

“I think you have more stamina than I do, Keith. ‘M still feeling lazy,” Shiro mutters, laughing softly as Keith pushes himself up to land a kiss squarely on his cheek. He blushes as Keith’s attentions turn lower, a heated mouth closing over his left nipple and teasing it between a keen set of teeth. “But feel free to keep doing… _that_ ,” he says, a delighted little shudder rolling through him.

Keith does, touching Shiro everywhere but his dick until he’s squirming and thrashing in place, as eager for release as he is overwhelmed. And Keith is nearly as far gone as he glides a hand down Shiro’s side and massages at his hip, stammering out, “Shiro, would it ever— do you like, uh— I mean, I could fuck _you,_ if that’s—”

“Yes, please, _yes_ ,” Shiro immediately answers, splaying his legs a little wider to offer himself up. He bites into the fullness of his bottom lip, mouth curling into a well-pleased smile as Keith fumbles for the nearby lube.

There’s a heady satisfaction to sinking all the way into Shiro, punching out needly little noises and breathy murmurs of his name. The intensity of it peaks hard and fast, Keith losing himself in fervent, breakneck rutting that has him coming inside of Shiro within two minutes, tops. 

“Oh. Shit. Sorry,” he says as soon as he comes to his senses, the heat of his embarrassment radiating from him in waves. 

“Don’t apologize,” Shiro says, still handling himself with long, unhurried strokes. The corner of his mouth gives a little tug, but his eyes are glazedly dark where they fix on Keith, studying him intently from under a cast of long lashes. “It was hot, watching you go all out. Feeling you that desperate. I’m close, Keith.”

The words come airy and half-broken, Shiro’s hips lifting as Keith pulls himself loose and warm white weeps slowly down the curve of his ass. Licking his lips, Keith reaches out to wrap his hand around Shiro’s full, proudly curved cock, too.

The tips of his fingers don’t quite meet. Keith swallows thickly, wondering at how he had something so _big_ inside of him for most of last night.

Shiro’s prosthetic fingers drift down to squeeze at the base of his cock, gleaming silvery against flushed skin. Keith’s hand pumps the rest of his length, thumb teasing along its underside and around the head with every stroke, and it isn’t long at all until Shiro spills out all over Keith’s hand, his wrist, and himself.

And after they’ve both caught their breath and stirred up the energy to rise out of bed, they realize they’re both well and truly in need of that shower they'd skipped last night.

It's a _nice_ shower, too. Nice for working the ache from his shoulders and lower back. Nice for pushing Shiro against its sparkling grey tile, caging him in while they kiss in the steam. It’s less nice for resting his knees on, but Keith can't really count off points for that.

By the time Shiro fixes a late breakfast and they sprawl out on his couch, it's already noon and Keith is happily resigned to missing his scheduled flight home. He is cozily comfortable in one of Shiro’s long-sleeved shirts and a pair of his slippers, awash in the warm smell and soft surroundings of the man he loves, and parting from him any sooner than he absolutely _has_ to might possibly rip Keith’s heart right out.

While he scarfs down eggs and sausage and half a carton of orange juice, he bites the bullet and buys a ticket for six a.m. tomorrow instead. It’s the latest he can manage while making it home in time for their next team practice, and even the bane of an early morning flight is worth it if he can wring out a little more time with Shiro.

In between nibbles of toast, Shiro grabs the remote from the coffee table and flips on the TV. He’s halfway through listing out which games he has recorded when the screen blinks on and they’re both hit with a shot of themselves.

On the field. Kissing. 

Keith’s chewing slows. There’s a scrawl across the bottom of the screen about how neither of them could be reached for comment; after a few moments, the image of them fades and is instead replaced with the roundtable of sportscasters who are apparently discussing them. “I forgot about that.”

“I did, too,” Shiro says, grimacing as he flips over to a channel with nature documentaries instead.

Nervously, Keith digs around in his duffel bag for his phone.

He has two dozen missed calls and twenty-plus text notifications. His twitters— the regular one _and_ the thirst one— have blown up. Keith considers shoving his phone right back into the bottom of his bag, the sudden volume of attention almost paralyzing.

“Keith. Are you okay?” Shiro’s gaze darts from him down to the phone in his hand, brows pinched with worry. “Did someone say something to you?”

“No. I mean, yeah, I’ve got a ton of messages. Nothing bad, though. Not that I know of, anyway,” he shrugs. “It’s just a lot. But that’s on me.”

“It’s not,” Shiro says, leaning over to grab Keith’s free hand. He lifts it and leaves a kiss on the back of his knuckles, smiling for reassurance. “I’ve been through this song and dance long enough to know it’s inevitable. It’s an industry,” he mouths around a big bite of ketchup-covered eggs. “They’d have spun something out of us eventually. At least it was something grand and romantic.”

“You think?” Keith asks, trying not to smile as he pokes at the rest of his food.

“Yeah.” Shiro’s eyebrows go up. “This is a lot of bullshit,” he adds, waving his fork vaguely at the TV, though it’s currently playing some show about heritage breed turkeys, “but it does save us the trouble of trying to keep it discreet. And how many people get to see their first kiss caught on film from fifty different angles? I dunno, Keith. It’s pretty amazing. I’m glad you kissed me then and there, honestly. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Keith softens, slumping back against the cushion as tension he hadn’t even been aware of eases out of him. “Yeah. I wouldn’t, either.”

He starts scrolling through his notifications, sifting through congratulatory texts of varying tone from his teammates, Matt and Pidge, his coach, and _his mom_.

Keith wouldn’t change one moment of the last twenty-four hours, but it’s still embarrassing to know Krolia’s seen them kiss and all the spectacle surrounding it. And it’s still irritating to scroll through twitter and find footage of them being freeze-frame dissected by sports hosts, the replies littered with comments from know-nothings who feel the need to spew opinions about him and Shiro.

Interpretations of what their kiss means vary far and wide. Keith sees a few posts speculating that they've secretly been together all along; others suggest Keith threw the game out of love, which nearly sends his eyes rolling right out of his skull. Shiro shows him a news clip alleging that it was a public relations stunt staged between the two teams, meant to draw more attention to the underdog Blades and the fledgling franchise Lions.

And then there’s Keith's personal favorite for reasons of sheer insanity: the suggestion that the kiss was purely a taunt meant to rile and intimidate a rival player.

After spending a few hours catching up on texts, checking in with their coaches, and resting up from an exhausting night, they slip into casual workout clothes and set out for a late, late lunch.

To Keith’s mild surprise, there are a few local news cameras staked outside of the apartment building. He worries anew for what this must be like for Shiro— yet another media circus on his doorstep, his personal life pried into for the nth time. Keith even being spotted leaving his apartment will undoubtedly get talked about, too, and the pictures spread...

Just as Keith shrinks from the cameras and goes to pull up his hood, a familiar arm wraps around his waist. Almost possessively, Shiro draws Keith to his side and ducks to give him a peck on the cheek, smiling warmly as he makes a point of outright ignoring their obvious onlookers.

“There. Now _I_ kissed _you_ in front of an audience. We’re even and there’s no more need for any painfully obtuse speculation about us,” he whispers up close just before kissing him on the lips, brazen and lingering. “Should eliminate some of the drama, right?”

“I think you just poured kerosene on this, but sure,” Keith laughs, his hand slipping into Shiro’s back pocket as they walk away. He nestles in close as Shiro waves off the calls for an on-the-record comment that trail after them, grinning. “We’re even.”

They slip into a crowd along the sidewalk, pass a park, and cut through a crosswalk before disappearing into a tiny cafe Shiro knows and loves well. It’s small and tightly packed and Shiro _swears_ by their chicken salad sandwich. Keith picks out four different sandwiches just for himself, both ravenous and curious to try them all, and grumbles good-naturedly when Shiro blocks him from the register and insists on covering the bill himself. They leave with arms weighed down by bags of takeout, stifling laughter as they slip past the few lingering cameras on their way back to the apartment.

With every passing hour, Keith is less and less certain of how he’ll ever bring himself to leave. He spends all evening firmly lodged in Shiro’s lap, soaking up as much precious contact with him as he can. He drapes himself across Shiro through the night, horny and clingy. And at a miserable three in the morning, his alarm starts blaring.

Keith needs to get up and get ready to leave. He knows it. But all he wants is to stay, to wake up with Shiro again tomorrow, to keep him close forever and always.

Shiro pulls him close for a sleepy kiss, stroking through Keith’s hair as he murmurs little wishes that he could stay. Keith’s hand slips under Shiro’s waistband to curl his hand around his sleepy cock and rouse it, too, wishing the same.

Their last fuck is quick and sloppy and filled with longing. Keith winds up with a mouthful of pillowcase every time he opens his mouth to gasp for air, moaning Shiro’s name as he’s smushed down into the bed, his own spent cock pinned between his belly and the silky coolness of Shiro’s sheets.

“Fill me up,” he reminds Shiro when he finds the breath for it. He lifts his hips up a little higher, hoping to make it easier for him. “I wanna take some of you with me.”

That undoes Shiro then and there, whole body plastering to Keith’s back as soon as he’s finished.

Keith cleans up after and gathers his things, feeling forlorn in the predawn darkness. The thought that some of Shiro’s come still clings to his insides is an odd comfort, though. The slight ache between his legs helps soften the loss of leaving so soon. 

The ride to the airport is quiet. Shiro holds Keith’s hand all the way, thumb continuously stroking over the back of his index finger like some gesture meant to self-soothe. They kiss goodbye at line for airport security, Shiro lingering near Keith until the last possible moment.

And then Keith is without him. Again.

He lands a few hours later, welcomed back with one of his mother’s warm hugs and Kolivan’s gravely uttered, “You’ve sown havoc, Keith.”

“Out of love,” Krolia adds, smiling rather indulgently.

He has. The media whirlwind surrounding Shiro and Keith has swelled to include both of their teams, reporters pestering Kolivan and the other players at every practice. On Shiro’s advice, Keith tries his best to ignore it until the furor dies down. Besides, his hands are already full in dealing with the too-knowing teasing of his teammates and his mom’s many questions about Shiro and when she’ll get to meet him.

Soon, Keith hopes. But for now, he and Shiro are stuck a thousand miles apart. Their busy schedules preclude the possibility of meeting up, even for a day, but they work around it.

They sync their workouts whenever they can, spending hours talking or just listening to each other breathe. They stream movies together a thousand miles apart, and blow kisses to each other through their laptop cameras, and Keith is more than pleased to lie back in bed as Shiro slowly strips for him at the end of a long day, the shower already running in the background.

"Miss you," he sighs, a hand already sliding under the waistband of his sweats as Shiro peels down his briefs and smiles just for him.

They have a good thing going, even if Keith finds himself wistfully wishing for Shiro’s touch more often than not. And all of their daily conversations and picture swaps help to take the edge off of the agitation that stews fiercer in Keith as his confrontation with Sendak and the rest of the Imperials closes in.

He pours that frustration into his training sessions, working late to ensure he’s in top form for the game. He wakes with a jaw sore from grinding his teeth through the night, stress and dormant fury taking their course. He reviews hours and hours of Imperial gameplay tapes, hands clenched tight as he watches Sendak rip through offensive lines like they’re paper mache.

And he thinks of what he did to Shiro behind closed doors, the persistent harassment that Shiro is so loathe to share— even now, even with Keith. The slightest pushback against the Daibazaal team’s toxic culture of hazing and verbal abuse only intensified it; Shiro snubbing Sendak’s advances only got him idle locker room threats and harder hits on the practice field, culminating in the injury that had taken his arm.

"Keith, just play smart," Shiro quietly pleads the night before the match, voice wavering. "Don't try to get even. Emotional manipulation is Sendak's fort. And everyone else on that team, Lotor aside, is some kind of awful. You need to keep a clear head. Don't go in angry on my account."

"I won't," Keith says, wanting to comfort Shiro in his worrying. But how can he be anything but furious? Sendak nearly destroyed Shiro’s career out of malice and hurt Shiro so grievously that he withdrew from everyone— Keith included.

Keith heeds Shiro's words, at least in the sense that he harnesses his considerable anger and channels it into cool, patient fury. The older Blades are helpful in that regard— Antok, Thace, and Ulaz all have their own grudges with Sendak and the Imperials, all just as eager to topple them.

Kolivan pulls Keith aside during warm-ups and makes it clear that he sees Sendak as a threat, too, and not just for what he did to Shiro.

“Given Sendak’s penchant for spite, your connection to Shiro makes you a special target,” he warns, squeezing Keith’s shoulder. “It might not be wise to field you against him. No doubt he’d see sidelining you as a twofer— debilitating our offense while also twisting the knife in Shiro once again.”

“I won’t let him," Keith promises as he tugs his gloves on. He bristles under Kolivan’s well-meaning touch, absolutely refusing to sit out while Sendak runs ramshod over his team. “Let me outplay him, Kolivan. Trust me.”

Kolivan studies with with sharp eyes framed by weary lines. “Only if you can keep a cool head, Keith.”

He tries. Oh, he _tries_. 

But the blood in Keith’s veins burns like kerosene as he takes the field in Daibazaal’s stadium, the usual cheers tempered with considerable booing from the Imperials fans. He pays them no mind as he stares down Sendak’s hulking form amid the rest of the Imperials, all lined up for the kickoff. The punted ball arcs high before dropping into his waiting arms. As soon as Keith closes his hands around it, he barrels toward the oncoming Imperials, head lowered and his gaze fixed on the goal line.

Keith doesn’t expect to make it to a touchdown, not so easily, but the collision at the fifty-yard line still sends him spinning. Grass and dirt somehow wind up _inside_ his helmet. The crowd’s roar fades in and out of his hearing. His whole flank aches. For a few moments, Keith lies there and writhes against the fresh turf, waiting for his bearings to return.

Sendak’s rumbling voice cuts through all of it, deep and menacing.

“You go down as easy as he does,” he rumbles from somewhere above; Keith opens his eyes in him to see him flash a sharp, cruel grin behind his facemask. “I hope he’s watching.”

Shiro is. From his own home, though, rather than the stands. And Keith is glad for it— Sendak doesn’t deserve to share the same stadium with him.

It’s the thought of Shiro that has Keith back on his feet and pointedly stalking away from Sendak before his temper can get the better of him. He paces to cool off, shaking out his arms and rolling tensed shoulders. They reset in near silence, the Imperials’ defensive line arrayed before the Blades like an imposing wall of muscle.

After the snap, Thace hesitates. At the last second, he throws a pass to Ulaz. It’s incomplete, and it comes so late in the play that Keith is caught off-guard again as Myzax catches him around the middle, lifts him high, and then slams him into the field.

Though the ringing in his ears, Keith can hear Sendak’s derisive laugh and his own teammates’ voices as they jostle toward him, protective. He waits to hear some kind of call— a personal foul for unnecessary roughness, the hit landing after the play and with far more force than necessary.

There’s nothing, though, and Keith isn’t sure why he expected any differently. The Imperials have a tendency to get their way, and that includes an incredible amount of latitude in what gets flagged on the field. 

The Blades line up again, slower and warier of what’s to come.

Keith can feel a twinge in his back from the last blow, already aching just minutes into the first quarter. He runs the ball upfield and manages to make a first down before Sendak crashes into him, forcing the air from his lungs in one agonized gasp.

And his weight isn’t the warm, soft crush of Shiro’s, hard in just the right places and gentled everywhere else. It’s _devastating._ It buckles Keith into the ground and makes every breath a labor. And no referees seem to care that Sendak grinds Keith’s helmet into the grass as he stands, using him for leverage.

The next run is even rougher.

During the tackle, Sendak’s burly fingers reach through the front of Keith’s helmet and grab him by the facemask, snapping his head to the side as he’s heaved to the ground. The pain is jarring enough that Keith fumbles the ball and the Imperials take possession, and as he picks himself up and watches the Imperials’ defense take the stolen ball to the goal for a touchdown, Keith waits for a ref to throw a flag on the play and call the obvious foul.

Nothing comes, though. Nothing but the outraged booing of the Marmora fans in the stadium, as pissed at the negligence of the referees as Keith is.

His rage and smarting sense of injustice quickly boil over, Keith’s gloved fists clenching tight. Livid, he wheels toward the first ref he sees, arms spread wide and spitting mad behind his visor. “C’mon! That was a facemask! You fucking saw him grab my mask—“

And then there are firm hands on his shoulders, Thace and Regris smartly steering Keith away before he can make a scene that’ll cost them.

“You need to cool it,” Keith warns as they head for the sideline, not unsympathetic. “The Imperials play rough. That’s not new. And important calls tend to go in their favor,” he adds, bitterly dry. “Not that anyone can ever prove Zarkon’s paying them off, but it certainly feels that way.”

Keith’s boiling blood lowers to a steaming simmer while he waits on the sidelines, watching Lotor lead the Imperials offense to another goal. And as he marches back onto the field for their next offensive push, he catches a whiff of Shiro’s name coming from the Imperials’ huddle.

Keith stops in his tracks and scowls in their direction.

Sendak meets his gaze over the huddled heads of his teammates, grinning. “Just talking about how much you take after your boyfriend,” he sneers. If the refs can hear, they don’t show it. “Weak. Overhyped. In desperate need of being put in your place.”

His golden eyes trace Keith down to his cleats. “Maybe you’ll be even more like him by the end of the game,” Sendak adds, leering. “It doesn’t take much to bend a leg the wrong way during a hit—“

“Fuck off, Sendak,” Antok growls over Keith’s shoulder as he passes, thumping his back in reassurance.

Keith inhales sharp through his nose, fighting the adrenaline-fueled tremble working through him as they take their places. He wants nothing more than to send his fist straight through Sendak’s mask and beat him blind, but—

He thinks of his team, his coach, his mother, and Shiro, who must be watching from home with stomach-turning anxiety. The best gift Keith can give him is a crushing defeat of the Imperials, with some personal humiliation for Sendak on the side.

Keith chokes down angry bile and waits for the snap, all focused determination. As soon as he gets the ball, he sprints upfield, ignoring every ache in his battered body. Cutting sharply around Imperial defenders, he is at last able to break away— from everyone but Sendak.

Massive and hellishly fast, Sendak dives to catch him, clawing hands outstretched. Keith feels him draw near, the viselike crush of Sendak’s iron embrace starting to close around him, and in a split second move shoots himself upward instead— the way he’d seen Shiro do as a running quarterback, diving over the defense to score. The uncanny, unexpected leap vaults him just out of Sendak’s reach, stumbling where he lands a yard away. The crowd roars as Keith catches himself and dashes toward the goal line uncontested, making the Blades’ first touchdown of the night.

Keith tosses the ball aside to the ref and laughs, relieved, as Ulaz and Acxa drag him into a celebratory hug.

Upfield, Sendak snarls and drives a curled fist into the ground as he stands, the Imperials and the Blades aggressively bumping shoulders as they clear to the sidelines.

Riding Keith’s inspiring success, Antok and the defense manage to sack Lotor and stop the offense cold. And as the second quarter draws to a close, Keith faces off against Sendak for the last time this half.

He weaves through the field with the ball clutched tight, eyes locked on Sendak’s hulking form as he places himself between Keith and the goal. Again, there’s no easy way out.

Keith charges ahead anyway. He tries to leap out of reach as Sendak closes in, but this time it’s expected.

Keith is caught around the middle and yanked into a bone-crunching roll, Sendak’s behemoth bulk threatening to grind him right into the field. And as they tumble, a mess of flailing limbs and prying hands, Keith’s knee meets the front of Sendak’s helmet hard enough to knock his head backward, helmet thunking loud against the earth.

Keith rolls back onto his feet with the ball safely clutched tight— just in time to hear the referee flag him for a personal foul against Sendak.

“Unnecessary roughness,” booms around the stadium, half the crowd booing in response. Sendak shoves aside the hands of his teammates offering to help him up and instead snarls in Keith’s direction.

“Hope it was worth it, you cocky brat.”

Keith can think of a few choice words he’d like to answer with. Or maybe a single, emphatic gesture.

Ulaz is there to gently stop him short. “Don’t get yourself flagged for unsportsmanlike conduct next. Come here, Keith. He’s deliberately trying to work you into a lather.”

They take a setback in the form of a fifteen-yard penalty; the added distance hamstrings them, and after four fruitless attempts to make a first down, the second quarter ends. None of the Blades seem to hold it against him, at least. There are dozens of supportive pats and half-hugs as they shamble into the locker room at halftime, down by twenty-one points.

While Kolivan reviews plays and strategizes ways to exploit the Imperials’ meager few weaknesses, Keith sits and massages his aching legs. Regris helpfully applies a heating patch on his back, tucked under his uniform. All around them, other Blades are wearily doing the same. Even Antok, usually an unbudging mountain of resolve, looks worn.

Kolivan isn’t one for long speeches or pep talks. He lays out the stakes and their odds of winning— decent, he thinks, despite the demoralizing hits they’ve taken thus far— and emphasizes his faith in his team. If they can outlast the Imperials and make a few smart trick plays, they could get a leg up. The Marmora Blades may not have struck a victory against Daibazaal in ten years, but this game will be the start of a new era.

“I think you ought to give Shiro a call,” Kolivan adds softly as he passes Keith, a hand lingering on his shoulder. “You’ve done well, Keith. I know Sendak hasn’t made it easy. Hold it together a little longer, alright?”

Keith nods, fishes his phone from his locker, and steps away from his team.

The corner he lingers in is damp. Cold. Dim. But all of that seems to change when he hears Shiro’s voice out of thin air.

“Keith?” Shiro sounds soft, shocked, relieved. “Keith! You’re calling me at halftime? I— wait, does Kolivan know?”

Keith smiles at the warm, familiar voice, eyes squeezing shut and nose scrunching as he holds back a wave of longing that takes him by surprise.

“Yeah, he knows. He’s the one who told me to call you. To help clear my head, I guess,” Keith mutters, pushing a hand through his sweaty hair. “Or calm me down.”

There’s a faint, wispy sigh. And then, in hushed tones, “Keith? I’m so proud of you. I always knew you’d be great.”

“So great that I lost my team fifteen yards and a first down while we’re twenty-one points behind,” Keith snorts, an arm folded anxiously over his stomach while he paces in a short line.

“Keith, don’t. Everyone knows that foul was bullshit,” Shiro huffs. There’s a prickly, irritated bite to his words that only makes Keith wish he were here to wrap his arms around, to kiss until they both felt better. “It’s the only way the Imperials can win the way they do, year after year. And listen, I’ve replayed that shot of your knee colliding with Sendak’s face like five times already. It was poetry in motion. You’re my hero.”

The outpouring of praise leaves Keith flustered, warmth kindling quick through his belly.

“I wish I was there with you,” Shiro adds, gently yearning. “More than anything, Keith. But know that I’m watching. And wearing my Marmora hoodie for good luck. Here, I’ll send you a pic. Or will that just distract you?”

“It’d be a _good_ distraction,” Keith laughs back, nodding as Ulaz gestures to him that time is short.

There’s movement on the other side of the lockers as his teammates begin to gather themselves to head back up to the field. “Shiro, listen, I’ve gotta go. Wish me luck. And send me that selfie. And if you liked what I did last quarter, then I’ll knee Sendak in the balls next. For you.”

“Don’t do that. The refs would throw you out in a heartbeat,” Shiro groans, a little snip of a laugh following. He sighs out low after, wistful, as if he still wishes Keith could get away with it. “But Keith? Kick his ass, baby. Show everyone why you’re the best in the league.”

The thrilled, fiery flutter in Keith’s heart only grows as a message follows the end of the call— a selfie of Shiro blowing a kiss from the couch where he’s watching the game with Allura, the purple Marmora Blades hoodie Keith gifted him snug on his broad frame.

His energy is different when he returns to the bright-lit field and screaming stadium. And contagious, too, Regris and Thace and Zethrid all springy stepped alongside him. The air Keith breathes in feels electric; he pictures Shiro watching him and stands straighter, prouder, under the weight of millions of watching eyes.

The tide turns from the kickoff of the second half, Antok repeatedly breaking through the Imperial line and forcing the Lotor to throw the ball away. The offense skids to a standstill, breaking upon an iron wall of Marmora defenders.

Keith wants to keep the momentum going. He ignores Sendak’s taunts as he takes the field, mouth set in a firm line as he checks the fastening of his helmet. Thace is just as determined, as are Zethrid and the rest of the offensive linemen. And where Sendak had looked at him with disdain and vicious amusement before, he seems nothing but resentfully furious now.

Keith feels a twinge of satisfaction at the abrupt change. The feeling only deepens as he fakes a handoff from Thace and lures Sendak across the field after him. While Ulaz expertly completes a sixty-yard pass and scores the Blades another touchdown, Keith smirks and pushes Sendak off of him. No comment necessary— the sudden shift in Sendak’s expression as the cheers ring out and the score ticks up is gratifying enough.

The push and pull between their teams is just as rough as ever. If anything, Keith can tell that Sendak’s is throwing even more muscle into his hits, trying to crunch him into the ground and send him limping from the field mid-game. But Keith has been taking blows ever since he was a kid, and fighting bullies, too. And he’s _never_ been one to back down.

Not even when his legs scream with the burn of being overtaxed and his sides heave as he battles fatigue. Not even when there’s a worrying twinge in his right knee and he feels like one giant, waking bruise.

Sheer grit and a few trick plays help even the playing field. A surprise onside kick stuns the Imperials long enough to score the Marmora Blades another touchdown. By the end of the fourth quarter, they’re only trailing by three points.

The atmosphere in the stadium is like a living, breathing crackle of energy, the crowd stomping and screaming as the two teams set up on the field once more, Kolivan’s instructions still fresh in Keith’s mind.

“They’ll carry you off the field on a stretcher after this play,” Sendak promises as they circle around each other before the set-up for the snap. And Keith believes he’ll try his damndest to make good on it— Shiro is far from the only player Sendak’s injured over the years. “You and Shiro both—”

“Keep his name out of your mouth,” Keith growls as he stalks past, more than ready to be done with Sendak. A searing, soothing heat fills his aching limbs— a concentrated, liquid fury, a focused anger that fuels him beyond even his usual endurance.

He grabs the ball from Thace at the snap and pours everything into sprinting past the clashing linemen. Ragged pants fill his helmet, partially misting the bottom of his visor; sweat trickles under his heavy padding, dampening his uniform through And when Sendak enters his smoky-tinted field of vision from the left side, Keith charges onward.

He’s not as reckless as he looks, though. It’s calculated, the way he veers close to Sendak and then sidesteps just as he lunges, clipping the linebacker’s shoulder just hard enough to turn his own bulk against him.

The contact jars Keith to the bone, agony knifing through him, but it’s worth the sight and sound of Sendak sent sprawling onto his back. It leaves the path to the end zone clear, if Keith’s trembling legs can carry him there before the rest of the Imperials catch up.

Sendak isn’t quite done, though. Still laid low on the ground, he claws at Keith’s calves, desperate to snare and drag him down before he can escape.

Almost in slow-motion, Keith feels the grasp that scrabbles to close around his ankle mid-stride, eager to twist and snap the delicate joint as he’s felled. He hangs in the air a second longer than usual— or so it feels, all of time slowed while his heart races— and wrenches himself loose before Sendak’s hold on him solidifies. And as Keith comes down, his stride lands on something that isn’t the flat, yielding turf he’s used to.

Whatever it is rolls underfoot, unstable, but Keith’s quick to regain his balance. Something hard and solid gives underneath the metal spikes of his cleats as he pushes off, a guttural grunt strained out somewhere behind Keith as he hurtles down the last thirty yards in mere seconds.

Then time hurries again, everything unfolding quick as the Marmora side of the stadium cheers and the score on the board ticks up to take the lead. Keith is swallowed up in hugs from his teammates, all watching as Sendak stalks to the sideline with his left wrist cradled to his chest, shoving aside the teammates and medical staff trying to tend to him, too proud to lie there on the ground or to admit the extent of the damage by accepting aid.

There’s a time-out as the tapes are reviewed; no foul is called, the injury ruled entirely accidental. It’s a stroke of luck, or perhaps of mercy, and Keith doesn’t bother to temper his shit-eating grin as Sendak finally gets a measure of the karma he’s due.

They make the field goal for the extra point and though the Imperials are just as surly and eager to clash as ever, it’s clear the team’s confidence is shattered. The time on the clock steadily ticks down. With a hint of a spiteful smile, Kolivan has the Blades stall to further run out the clock, frustrating their rival team to no end as the precious seconds they need to steal the lead trail into nothing.

The timer sounds, the stadium erupts in a cacophony of discordant screams, and Keith has to check the scoreboard again to make sure he’s seeing things right.

They won. By less than a touchdown, but they _won._

The final score brings with it a release that lets Keith crumple to his knees, relieved tears staining his cheeks behind his visor. His exuberantly cheering team rushes over to sweep him up and hoist him high, carrying him to the sidelines just in time to watch Kolivan get dunked with a cooler filled with icy purple gatorade, their coach grinning even as he’s soaked from head to toe.

Thace and Ulaz loop their arms around Keith and help him down to the locker room, no doubt noticing just how wrecked he is from the match. At the locker room’s entrance, Krolia greets him with a hug that lifts him to his toes, her nose nuzzled into his messy hair. And after a rowdy round of celebration in the locker room, the entirety of the team floods into a nearby bar, dragging Keith with them. 

He’s more than happy to join in, honestly, even if he’s exhausted inside and out. This win is monumental and they earned it together in blood, sweat, and tears. The outing is worth it for Kolivan’s toast alone, proud and choked with emotion as he thanks his team for standing strong and fighting hard.

As soon as Keith is settled in with a beer, he reaches for his phone. There are a handful of texts waiting, but all he cares about at the moment are the ones from Shiro.

Shiro🖤😍: _KEITH!!!!!! YOU DID THAT!!!!! THE UPSET OF THE SEASON!! I was like THAT'S MY BOYFRIEND RUNNING OVER THE DAIBAZAAL IMPERIAL DEFENSIVE LINE!_

Shiro🖤😍: _Wish I was there with you_ 😘

Keith shuffles into a relatively quiet corner and calls Shiro back immediately. The answering voice is sleepy and scratchy but nonetheless uplifting.

"Keith? I wasn't sure if you were going to have a chance to talk tonight," Shiro says, obviously delighted that he did. "I'm sure the Blades are running wild."

Keith looks up to where Kolivan, Antok, and a few other Blades are doing some kind of drunken karaoke without any musical accompaniment. "Uh, yeah. It's a real party here. Are you feeling okay?"

"Me? Yeah. Just a little hoarse from cheering you on," Shiro admits, laughing softly. "And I don't want to keep you from enjoying yourself with the rest of your team. You deserve it, Keith. All of you. That was a hell of a game," he says, still faintly awed. "You must be exhausted."

"I'm dead on my feet. And it's been fun, but I'm ready to turn in.” He punctuates the sentiment with a yawn. "Is Allura staying over at your place tonight?"

Shiro snorts. "Yeah. She got worked up over that bullshit personal foul call, ate a whole bag of cotton candy in anger, and then crashed as soon as the game ended. Uh, right now she’s sleeping all curled up in the papasan. Are you and Regris sharing a room?"

"Yeah." Keith groans, feeling every ache at once. "I plan on soaking in a scalding bath for an hour and then sleeping for the next ten. So don't be alarmed if I don't call you first thing tomorrow."

"Sure, sure. Get some rest, baby. You need it after a fight like that."

"I will. And thank you, Shiro. Your selfie kiss really did the trick," Keith murmurs, smiling into his phone as Shiro laughs. "It's good luck. I need one before every game from now on."

Shiro draws out a sigh, the sound full of longing. "Hm... I think I can manage that."

They say goodnight three or four times before finally hanging up. Back in the hotel, Keith decompresses in the tub and takes stock of his bruised, battered body; it's a good thing their bye week is coming up, giving him a chance to recuperate before the next game.

The next day, Keith is almost too sore to move. He only rolls over in bed when Regris gets up to let his mom and Kolivan in, guessing it’s close to checkout time.

“I’m already packed,” he preemptively announces, groaning pitifully as he moves to the edge of the bed and sits up. Every inch of him is sore from the neck down. His trainers already checked him over and wrapped any joints that looked especially strained, but he should be fine. He only _feels_ like a shambling corpse given second life.

“Good. Good,” Kolivan says as Krolia sits beside her son. “Your mother and I were talking, Keith, and given that it’s a bye week and you’ve more than earned a break—“

“I went ahead and bought you a ticket for a different flight,” she says, showing him a boarding pass.

“To see Shiro?” Keith asks, gaze zooming to the destination. “But—“

“It’s going to be a light week for everyone on the team. I can afford to let you miss it,” Kolivan says, smiling the tiniest bit. “Remember: rest and light stretches only. I’m sure Shiro will be willing to help.”

“I’m sure he will,” Krolia echoes, the little tilt to her smile making it borderline mischievous.

The surprise gives Keith a second wind, renewed strength filling his aching limbs as he hugs them both goodbye and takes off for the airport. He spends the flight daydreaming of how he’ll surprise Shiro by turning up on his doorstep— with flowers, maybe, or a bag of Shiro’s favorite chocolates and enough convenience store snacks to carry them through the next few days. With a kiss, for sure, Shiro wide-eyed and charmed as Keith leans over the threshold and sweeps him off his feet.

But all of his fantasizing ends up for naught.

As Keith grabs his carry-on, exits the gate, and heads out to find a lift, Shiro is there. Waiting. Not with flowers, but with a pack of heat therapy patches and a bag of Keith's favorite spicy trail mix. He rushes forward and meets Shiro in a hug, laughing as he's lifted high and twirled around.

"How'd you know?" he asks while Shiro picks up his duffel and carries it for him.

"Your mom sent a message through the grapevine and Coran passed on your flight info to me," Shiro explains, grinning. "You can go ahead and give her my number, if you want. For next time. Or whenever. Or whatever."

“Okay. She’ll love that,” Keith says, smiling back. 

His week with Shiro is restful and relaxing. Keith spends the first day starfished in Shiro's magnificent bed while he's away at practice, sleeping off his lingering exhaustion and basking in the comforting smell of his boyfriend's room. And when Shiro returns home, he drops onto the bed and

greets Keith with a drawn out kiss, his skin and hair still dewy fresh from a shower. Lazily, Keith lifts his arms and folds them around Shiro. His slim hands bury themselves in hair still slowly turning silvery-white and slip under the collar of his jacket, feeling over muscle and skin still flushed from his workout.

And then Shiro gives up all pretenses of doing anything else and flops into bed with Keith, shrugging out of his clothes while they kiss like it’s their first time in years.

They use the time together to make vague plans for the off-season. Shiro wants to come up to Keith’s place and meet Krolia, ready and willing to let himself be grilled by his boyfriend’s mom. Keith is eager to accompany Shiro on his next trip home to see his aunt, already nostalgic at the thought of setting foot back in the house that had so powerfully shaped his fondest teenage memories. They’re both overdue for a visit to Matt and Pidge, too. And over Chinese takeout and old monster movies, they even float the idea of taking a vacation to Disneyworld together.

“You haven’t been there either, right?” Shiro confirms before slurping up a long string of noodles. “We could explore it together. All the parks. Themed hotel room. The works.”

“I could see you in a pair of those mouse ear headbands,” Keith muses, smiling around his next bite. He stretches out his legs where they’re draped across Shiro’s lap, toes curling in his socks, perfectly content. “Maybe with a bow.”

“Hm. I could see you in pair of mouse ears, too. Those and nothing else,” Shiro teases back, grinning as Keith plants a foot against his ribs and gives him a lazy push. And after some poking around in his second carton of basil squid, he adds, “I really wish it were like this all the time. Us being together.”

Keith grunts back, caught mid-chew. “Yeah. It was always hard being apart from you, but now it’s… I’m not sure how long I can take it, Shiro,” he admits.

“I know, baby,” Shiro says, sliding a comforting hand back and forth over one of Keith’s knees. “It’s hard. And it’s been especially hard on you for a long time,” he adds, a sad crinkle to the corners of his eyes. “But we’ll make it work.”

“I know.” Keith knows his own commitment— unshakable as the heavens and enduring as the stars— and he doesn’t doubt Shiro’s, either. He’d rather have a long-distance relationship filled with longing than nothing at all, obviously, but it doesn’t make the long droughts without Shiro any easier to bear. “But how long will we have to keep making it work, you think?”

Months? _Years?_ Keith thinks he’d combust at spending so much of his time across the country from Shiro.

“As long as it takes,” Shiro promises, hand skimming up Keith’s thigh before finding his fingers and winding them through his own. “I’m not going anywhere.” And then his breath hitches, a hesitant little smile lifting at one corner of his mouth. “I mean, I _would,_ though. For you.”

“For me?” Keith asks, a little squirm of delight rippling through his belly.

“If the Blades would have me, maybe we could…” Shiro trails off, uncertain. “We could play together again, like in high school. You’d still be close to your mom. We could even live together, if you want. Or is that presumptuous of me?” he adds, smiling sheepishly.

“Not at all. I’d love it. You could move into my house. Or we could buy a new place together,” Keith rushes out, already fidgeting with excitement. And then he stills, breath softly hitching as it occurs to him what this would mean for Shiro. “I mean… if you really don’t mind leaving the Lions?”

Shiro’s fond smile goes a little sad around its edges, eyes shining under the cast of his dark lashes. He wraps his hand fully around Keith’s, strong and secure. “It’s… they’re a little like family now, yeah, but you were my family first, Keith, and now more than ever. Being with you is what’s most important to me. Allura’d understand. So would Coran and Alfor.” 

Keith hums softly, staring at the warm hand enveloping his. Shiro’s offering to leave everything he’s made behind; Keith hates to ask it of him.

They let it settle for a while, but the talk lingers at the back of Keith’s mind even after they move on to dessert and video games and making out on Shiro’s living room floor with moonlight pouring down around them through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

The next morning, Keith joins Shiro and Allura on one of their routine runs, stretching out limbs gone stiff from the last few days spent lazing around. They drive to the countryside, near rolling fields and orchards, and start with a jog that takes them weaving through meadows and over small rivers on wooden footbridges. By the time they work up to a run, Keith feels like himself again— sure-footed and utterly at ease on his feet, easily able to keep stride with Shiro.

The three of them stop for lunch in a small cafe off the beaten path, filling up on homey pancakes and fried eggs. After another few hours of backtracking to the car, Allura invites them both over for lunch at her place.

Allura’s house is a mansion, technically. Keith finds himself staring at gold-trimmed columns and walls lined in expensive-looking watercolors as they proceed to ‘the informal kitchen,’ utterly perplexed by the splendor of it. He’d figured the Alteas must come from money to be able to start a football franchise of their own, but…

“You seem to be in top form, Keith,” she praises while plating out finger sandwiches and arranging a cheeseboard. “I’m impressed! Between the walloping Sendak gave you and three nights alone with Shiro, I’d expected you to be too sore to move.”

Her teasing tone seems like it’s mostly meant for Shiro, but the sentiments ring bluntly true.

“I bounce back quick. Always have,” Keith shrugs. “And Shiro and I have been pacing ourselves while I recover,” he adds, unbothered by being frank. Shiro, meanwhile, curls a fist over his mouth as he chokes on a bite of brie. “Kolivan would kill both of us if I got sidelined from the next game because of a bedroom injury.”

While Shiro reddens like a ripening strawberry, Allura merely smiles around a tiny nibble of a cucumber sandwich and leans in across the counter, as if ready to gossip. “From what I’ve heard from Coran, that sounds quite likely.”

Two days later, Keith is overjoyed to attend one of Shiro’s games purely as a spectator and supporter, able to sit and watch to his heart’s content. Clad in the Lions' pink and blue, he cheers his boyfriend on from a seat right at the fifty-yard line and ignores the murmurs from the surrounding crowd— though it’s considerably harder to lie low when the stadium cam keeps putting his face on screen for all to see.

What few people chance speaking to him are polite, though, the stalwart Arusian Lions fans apparently willing to accept the running back of another team in their midst so long as he’s cheering their team on for a win. The whole thing will no doubt be another feature on the football talk show circuit, but it's well worth Shiro's joy as he skips over to Keith at the end to gently toss him the game ball. It's signed in Shiro's flashy scrawl, a black heart filled in beside his name.

They meet in the parking lot after, Keith's back pressed to the door of Shiro's black car and the football pinned between them as they kiss like the last few hours have starved them for it.

And the next morning, Keith has to leave.

* * *

The regular season concludes and the playoffs begin. 

The Marmora Blades are contenders; the Arusian Lions aren't. Keith knows that falling just short of qualifying must chafe something awful at Shiro’s competitive nature, but at least it frees up a little time in his schedule.

Shiro makes good on his desires to come up and pay Keith and Krolia a visit, though it’s blustery cold and the wintry weather in Marmora sees his flight delayed four times. He makes it into town just in time for Keith to sweep them out for a dinner at a nice restaurant in the city, still effortlessly handsome despite the eight hours he’d spend idling in the airport.

“It’s so good to finally meet you in person, Shiro,” Krolia says as soon as Keith introduces them, greeting him with a maternal hug and a peck on the cheek. “Although I _feel_ as though I’ve known you for so long now, through all of Keith’s stories and the pictures in—”

“Mom,” he has to remind her, glaring indignantly over Shiro’s shoulder. His boyfriend doesn’t yet know that Keith has magazine cut-outs of him taped in his locker, or a dedicated folder for Shiro-shots, or that he has that one Sports Illustrated spread as his desktop wallpaper. And he never will, if Keith has any sway here. 

Krolia presses her lips together and sighs. With a soft smile, she says, “I just wanted to thank you for taking care of my son while I couldn’t. You made a world of difference in his life, Shiro, and I’m beyond grateful for it. I know his father is, too.”

Shiro stammers for a solid ten seconds, visibly overwhelmed. “Of course I— it’s how much I— I-I’m thankful to you, too,” he says, blushing furiously as they transition from hug to awkward handshake. “For, um, making Keith in the first place.”

Krolia’s eyebrows give a little lift, her warm smile turning wry. “You’re welcome. That part was easy, actually.”

Mortified, Shiro suddenly wobbles on his feet, mouth gaping pointlessly. Keith has to bite back a laugh as he leans into Shiro’s side, supporting his boyfriend as he hangs his head and hides his face behind mismatched hands.

“That was _really_ smooth,” Keith whispers as they trudge toward the _maitre d’_ at the pace of a funeral dirge. He massages little circles into Shiro’s back, comforting him; on Shiro’s other side, Krolia holds his arm and assures him that she was only teasing.

Shiro’s blush lingers until they’re finished with their second course, but eventually he relaxes in Krolia’s company again. They trade stories of Keith back and forth across the table— Krolia talking about what a tenacious baby he’d been and Shiro giving highlights of their time together in high school. By the end of dinner, Keith’s mom leans over to stage whisper in his ear, “Oh, I _like_ him, Keith.” 

And this time, it’s Shiro who gets to attend a few of Keith's games, proudly cheering him and the rest of the Blades on from the stands— and, later, from the sidelines, thanks to Kolivan's indulgence. There’s no thrill quite like putting on a good show for Shiro, playing hard and then jogging back to the sideline for a fresh wave of encouragement. During the league’s championship, Keith breaks his own records for touchdowns and yards rushed while Shiro watches, on fire to make him proud.

After winning the title game, he spends the night being pampered by strong, gentle hands and an achingly soft mouth. Shiro’s thoughtful, thorough care is even sweeter than the victory itself; the memory of his touch lingers on Keith’s skin in a way the championship ring he wears can’t match.

Perhaps the only news bigger than the Marmora Blades becoming national champions for the first time in almost two decades is that of the Daibazaal Imperials' ruin as their star quarterback, Lotor, abruptly walks.

The aftermath is akin to watching the collapse of a football empire, a string of losses suddenly plaguing the team that had dominated the first half of the season. The loss of Lotor comes on the heels of Sendak being sidelined with a broken wrist, leaving the Imperials a shadow of their former might. And after Lotor cuts ties with his former team— and his father, who owns it— he goes into a self-imposed exile from Daibazaal and drops a bombshell that rattles the football community to the core: scathing evidence of the Imperials’ history of harassment, bribery, and cheating.

The news sweeps Shiro’s name back into the public fray, buoyed on a sudden revival of interest in the circumstances of his tragic departure from the Imperials. There are leaked groupchats and sworn statements that prove there was a culture of hazing and targeted harassment building up to the incident in which Shiro had ultimately lost his arm. The sudden deluge of incriminating evidence will no doubt strengthen Shiro's case against the team's management, but… 

But it’s a bitter thing to see thrown out in the open. For all the damage it does to Sendak and the Imperials’ staff, it reopens the deeply hewn wound for Shiro, too. For the better part of a week, they can scarcely venture out in public without someone trying to ask Shiro for an insider account of his former team’s bone-deep toxicity. Keith grows used to raising his hackles at any stranger’s approach, throwing himself between anyone who thinks they can waltz up to his boyfriend and pry into one of the bleakest periods of his life; he’s perfectly fine with being branded a rude, aggressive hothead by the paparazzi if it spares Shiro any extra discomfort.

And while Shiro passes the weeks of intensified media speculation in a quiet, forlornly introspective mood, Keith spends them on the brink of eruption, ready to lash out at the slightest provocation. His vision reds out while reading screenshots of texts between Sendak and other member of the team, pointed in their deep-seated resentment of both Lotor and Shiro, the sterling new quarterback who was meant to work alongside him. Heat blisters under his skin as sportscasters play devil’s advocate and wonder what Lotor and Shiro did to earn so much of their team’s ire. And he simmers as one by one, Imperial trainers and coaches come forward to belatedly condemn the behaviors they’d let slide or passively defended for years.

But it's confirmation of what Shiro'd said when he first filed his lawsuit, at least. And it's something of a felling blow to the Imperials franchise when coupled with the apparent bribery of referees and other seedy secrets that pour out in the wake of Lotor's reveal. Or so Keith hopes— Shiro deserves justice and at least half the Imperials deserve to be punted through a goalpost.

Maybe the best bit to come out of the turmoil is Lotor and Shiro reconnecting.

They’d only gotten as far as being teammates on friendly terms during Shiro’s short stint with the Imperials, but Shiro bleeds sympathy for his fellow ex-Imperials quarterback. He reaches out first, suspecting that Lotor is rather alone and friendless after exposing a mountain of dirt on his family and former team, and Lotor tentatively accepts an offer to come visit, to talk, to support each other through the fallout.

Lotor arrives in the lobby of Shiro’s apartment with a whole tail of reporters in tow, beleaguered behind his charming smile. Keith eyes him the whole elevator ride back up to Shiro’s floor— nearly seven feet of lean muscle, perfectly built for sending footballs spiraling eighty yards out of reach. Sharp-featured. Platinum-white hair pulled back in a messy bun. Unflustered by the intensity of Keith’s glare— ready for it, maybe, fully prepared to be harshly judged by Shiro’s staunchest protector.

In the safety of the apartment, clustered around the island in his sleekly modern kitchen, Shiro pops open a few beers and starts dumping candy into serving bowls. Lotor watches on in silence, sharp eyes tracking the spill of jelly beans and sour worms into their respective dishes. And all the while, Keith studies _him_ , ready to defend Shiro in a heartbeat.

Until Lotor’s first words leave him taken aback.

“I wanted to apologize to you in person, Shiro,” Lotor starts, his long, elegant fingers toying with the neck of the bottle that Shiro pushes his way. “For the toxicity of my father’s team. For not stepping in to try and stop it sooner. And for staying quiet for so long after…”

His gaze dips to Shiro’s prosthetic right arm. There’s a nervous flicker behind his eyes; he lifts the beer to his lips and draws a sip, licking his lips after.

“Sendak, Haxus, Myzax, the rest… none of them were ever what I’d call good teammates. They’re aggressive, talented brutes, though, and that’s all my father ever valued, really,” he adds, looking everywhere but at the two of them. “And the culture never seemed like something I could change alone, so I learned to stomach it. To pick and choose my battles. And then you joined, and…”

“I picked a lot more,” Shiro says, his tone dry and his smile ghostly thin.

“You challenged Sendak more often and openly than he was used to. You _turned him down_ ,” Lotor says, smiling ruefully. “His pride was wounded. I should’ve known disaster was brewing.”

“It’s not your fault,” Shiro says, a little fiercer and more confident than Keith’s seen him lately. “And it wasn’t mine, either.”

Keith smiles. Behind the kitchen island, out of Lotor’s sight, he hooks his ankle behind Shiro’s calf and give it a fond little rub. He’s proud of Shiro, first and foremost. Secondarily, his wary mistrust of Lotor Sincline begins to melt.

There’s a touch of color along Shiro’s cheeks as he throws back a handful of fruit gummies and continues. “I appreciate the gesture, though. And everything you brought forward. I know it must’ve been hard, considering your father owns the franchise.”

“That was a motivating factor, actually,” Lotor admits, pale brows lifting as he takes a deep swig from his drink. 

And as he gradually relaxes, Lotor starts delicately picking at the candy buffet and opening up about how Shiro’s ordeal had convinced him something drastic needed to be done— how he’d carefully bided his time, gathering evidence without making a peep that might let anyone on to his plans to leave the Daibazaal Imperials and torch the team in his wake.

“Any ideas where you’ll go next?” Shiro asks some hours later, after the three of them have moved out to the balcony to watch the sun set behind the city skyline. 

“No,” Lotor sighs. He’s too long for the lounge chair he sits in, his head dangling off of its back and his legs jutting well into Shiro’s space. “Right now I’m a little bit of a… hot potato,” he mumbles in his prim accent. “No one likes a troublemaker.”

Shiro nods, humming a soft agreement. “You know, the Lions have been known to take in skilled players who aren’t exactly attractive prospects to other teams in the league. On occasion.”

Lotor lifts his head and pops one eye open. “If there weren’t a history of bad blood between my father and Alfor Altea, it might’ve crossed my mind.”

“If you’re _really_ interested, I think I could convince him and Allura,” Shiro offers, smiling as Lotor blinks at him in utter surprise. “I think you’d make a good fit.”

* * *

All the talk of Lotor finding a new team prompts Keith and Shiro to revisit the topic themselves. Neither of them wants to spend another season on opposing teams, tugged to and fro by their respective obligations, kept apart for months at a time.

Spring training hasn’t even started yet when Keith flies back home and settles back into the house he’d left his mom to tend over the last three weeks. It feels empty without Shiro visiting, its many rooms sitting still and silent. The bed is too big for Keith alone. The fridge feels sparse. Loneliness stings more after spending a month and a half at Shiro’s side.

He waits until Kolivan is in a good mood to drop by his office, bringing a cup of coffee from his and Kolivan’s favorite place as an offering. "Hey, coach. Have some time to talk?"

Kolivan looks up from his tablet, half-moon reading glasses still perched on his nose. With a single finger, he taps a spot on his neatly ordered desk where Keith can set the coffee.

"It's about Shiro," Keith clarifies as he takes a seat and scoots closer, hands folded tightly in his lap.

Kolivan sighs and pulls off his glasses. He sets the tablet aside and clasps his hands together, reminding Keith vaguely of one of his middle school principals. "Of course it is."

It’s said with a weary sort of fondness, though. Kolivan had taken a shine to him early on, adopting a more personal touch with his most recent recruit. He and Antok invited him over for dinner often in those first weeks, making sure he’d eaten well and gotten settled into Marmora; as Keith’s relationship with his mother strengthened, they’d started inviting her, too.

Kolivan knows him. Knows his priorities. Knows Shiro has meant and will always mean the world to him.

"We've been talking about what to do going forward, career-wise. The long distance isn’t sustainable for us. We want to be together. To live in the same city. To play on the same team,” Keith starts, leaning forward over Kolivan’s desk. “Shiro offered to move here so that we can make that happen. He’s willing to leave the Lions, if the Blades will take him.”

There’s a heavy beat of silence in which the only sound echoes from the training room down the hall, his teammates’ laughter mingling with the clinking of weights. Kolivan sighs again, stony expression showing faint signs of reluctance.

For a heartbeat, Keith quails.

And then he rallies. “I know that upper management was afraid to sign him before, but that was because of Zarkon and the lawsuit and all those awful rumors their PR team spun about him. It’s bullshit. Proven bullshit. And if you vouch for him, I’m sure the franchise owners would listen.”

Keith is on his feet without even realizing it, hands splayed over the immaculately polished surface of Kolivan’s metal desk. “You know him, Kolivan. He's a great player and an even better person. Everyone on the team already likes him. And I'd be a lot happier, too. You can use me for leverage if you need to— tell them that Shiro joining is a guarantee that I won’t be going anywhere."

That same silence stretches again. Kolivan looks no more moved than he had before.

“Keith,” he says, low and graveled. “As a coach, I would be glad to have Shiro on our team. He's competent, respectful, able in both offense and defense. And then there's your morale to consider," Kolivan adds, the corner of his mouth twitching. "But speaking as a friend of your mother and someone who cares about you beyond your capacity on the field... before we make any moves to have Shiro join the Blades, I'd like you to stop and consider whether that is truly the best course of action for you both."

Keith stares, dumbfounded. It takes a few moments to process Kolivan’s unexpected words, to turn them around and try to puzzle out why he’d object like this. "Shiro already talked to Coran and Alfor about arranging a trade, and I won't be playing without him, Kolivan. If you're worried about having two teammates in a relationship—"

"That's not it," Kolivan interrupts, shaking his head. He gestures for Keith to close the office door, refusing to say anything more until it’s shut. And then he leans forward on his elbows, meeting Keith’s willful stare with something measured and patient and subtly amused. "Given my position with the Marmora Blades, Keith, you must understand that this is very difficult for me to say. With you on our roster, we just took the championship. And with Shiro, too, I know we'd handily defend the title. I think the team owners would be _very_ willing to reconsider Shiro at this point, truthfully.”

Keith’s heart jumps in his chest, thrilled to hear it straight from Kolivan’s unflinchingly practical mouth.

“But while the two of you would certainly be comfortable here,” his coach continues, the barest tug of a smile at the corner of his mouth, “I believe you and Shiro might enjoy yourselves more with the Lions."

Keith blinks. Stunned, he drops back into his seat and struggles for words. "Wait. Wait. You think I should leave instead? And move away to another team? And you'd be okay with that?"

Kolivan’s fond little smile strengthens. "You've achieved a great deal with this team in one season, Keith, and I couldn’t be prouder. Of course, you're more than welcome to stay and help us keep our title as national champions. _I_ certainly wouldn’t complain.”

“And yet,” Keith leads, head tilting.

“And yet,” Kolivan plays along, brows lifting, “I can’t help but believe that playing with the Arusian Lions would present more of a challenge and give you more room to grow as a player. I imagine you'd have far more fun fighting your way forward with an up-and-coming underdog team, Keith, especially alongside Shiro. And Allura Altea.”

"She and Shiro _are_ pretty close," Keith murmurs, nails scraping lightly over the arm of his chair. And though Shiro would be happily taken in by the Blades and made one of their own if he traded teams, Keith is loathe to ask him to leave behind the home he'd found with the Lions. "Thanks, Kolivan. I'll talk with him about it."

"Please do," Kolivan says, leaning back in his chair and giving Keith a satisfied little nod. "This conversation never happened, though. And thank you for the coffee. Please let me know your decision in a timely mann— oof."

Kolivan’s never been one for hugs, but he allows this one.

Keith calls Shiro on the way home and lays everything Kolivan told him at Shiro’s feet, offering to walk away from the Blades and join the Lions instead. It leads to another long conversation, hours spent turning over the choice, but by the end Keith is sure and certain it’s the right thing to do. His season with the Blades was exactly what he needed, the perfect place to find himself before he found Shiro. And now he’s ready to venture somewhere new.

That doesn’t make leaving easy. The last goodbyes are tearful, dozens of Blades lifting him in hugs and clapping him on the back, both sad to see him go and supportive of his moving to finally be with Shiro. For a year, they’ve been a family. And in some way, they always will be.

“When next we meet, it will be as worthy opponents,” Antok solemnly informs him, a massive, weighty hand swallowing up Keith’s shoulder. He nods once. “I look forward to it.”

“Okay,” Keith squeaks out as he’s immediately thereafter crushed in an embrace that swells to a group hug of a dozen or more.

Thace presents him with a gift from the whole team— a signed jersey covered in handwritten messages and new Marmora gear for both him and Shiro. And after finger foods and cake and too much beer, Kolivan takes Keith aside and says goodbye, too.

“We’ll always have a place for you, so long as I’m here,” he promises, fondly ruffling Keith’s hair while they hug. “Though I expect you’ll have such a wonderful time with your new team that you’ll be in no rush to leave.”

“Hopefully,” Keith agrees, wiping at his eyes with the hem of his long sweater sleeve. He presents Kolivan with a pair of Arusian Lion slippers as a parting gift, satisfied when it makes his coach snort in amusement.

And though he’s only leaving his mom for a while, Keith makes sure to stop by her place for dinner just before he goes. She’ll move down somewhere close to Keith and Shiro in the next few months, she says, once she’s made arrangements. It’s only fair, considering Keith had partly chosen the Marmora Blades because his long-lost mother lived nearby; this time, Krolia is going to come to him.

When Keith at last lands in the airport and finds Shiro waiting for him again, it feels like coming home to stay. No more weeks and months spent apart, no more video chats when all Keith wants is to hold Shiro and be held in return, to smell him and taste him and love him.

While they’re still in the slower paced off-season, he and Shiro start house-hunting. It’s not that Shiro’s apartment isn’t nice— it’s luxurious, conveniently located, and has a great view, definitely— but Keith likes privacy and nature and wants a house with room for animals.

A dog, specifically. A _big_ one.

Shiro likes the idea of being able to wake up and jog down trails and wooded paths rather than city streets. And he’s into getting a dog that might like to run with them. And when they tour a wood and glass house set in a private nook of the forest, complete with skylights and an outdoor bath and quietly stunning vistas of the woods and nearby lake, both their hearts set on it at the same time. It’s a perfect refuge and a perfect home, and still less than an hour away from all their responsibilities to the team.

There’s a housewarming party not long after they move in, although it also seems to double as a ‘welcome Keith’ party, too. His new teammates take the opportunity to thrust a small mountain of Arusian merch and gear upon him, getting him outfitted like a real Lion.

Lotor looks sympathetic where he stands with his champagne glass, stylish in slacks and a dress shirt in a pale blue that’s reminiscent of the Lions’ color. 

“They did the same thing to me last month,” he says, smiling behind his glass as he eyes the mountain of gifts in Keith’s arms. “Half my closet is pink and blue now.”

It’s endearing, though. Keith feels welcome and their new house already seems warmer, alive with the spirit of new beginnings. And while their guests boisterously drink and enjoy the fondue fountain set up in the kitchen, Shiro takes Keith’s hand and leads him upstairs to their bedroom.

The partying from downstairs turns muted as they cross bare wooden floors and the plush, grey-toned rug that stretches out from under the bed. It’s Shiro’s comfortable king, outfitted in a high thread count spread even softer and silkier than the one Keith remembers from the apartment.

And laid out over the creamy off-white comforter is Keith’s new uniform. Arusian Lions colors. A bold _21_ emblazoned over the front of his jersey. New riddell padding, fresh gloves, and a perfectly polished helmet with a white lion roaring against a backing of soft pink and blue.

“I asked if I could be the one to give them to you,” Shiro murmurs, at last uncurling his hand from around Keith’s. His faint smile spreads into a cheeky grin as Keith pads toward the bed with wide eyes and the silence that comes with complete surprise.

“A little like old times,” Shiro adds in a whisper as Keith picks up the helmet and turns it over in his hands.

It already has a visor affixed, but this one’s dark tint also bears a multicolored cast that shifts under the light as Keith tilts it. Mostly, though, it seems to glint red.

“I, uh, ordered that. I thought the effect looked cool. I figured you’d like it,” Shiro asks, pressing close to Keith’s back and burying his face in his hair. “Is it too much?”

“No. It’s perfect,” Keith says, his fingertips running over the curved polycarbonate. “Thank you.”

“I can’t wait to see you in it. In everything, helmet to cleats,” Shiro says, and Keith can feel his adoring smile. “I can’t wait to play on the same team with you again. It’s been too long, Keith.”

“It has,” Keith agrees, sighing as he turns around in Shiro’s embrace and slips his arms over wide shoulders, not-so-subtly encouraging Shiro to lean down and meet him in a kiss. It’s taken years to get here— and blood and sweat and tears, so much of it shed for Shiro— and for this kind of happiness? 

It’s all been worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **EPILOGUE INFO**
> 
> I. The next season, Shiro moves back to offense so he can share the field with Keith— this time as a second running back, defending Keith from interference so he can run the ball without being tackled. They’re an unstoppable halfback/fullback duo and prone to patting each other on the butt after every play. Tall ass Lotor moves to wide receiver and is great at reading the field and anticipating Allura’s passes. Hunk and Lance eventually get signed by the Lions, too, and wind up on defense. (Pidge and Matt make bank off of a fantasy football site they made.)
> 
>  **II. Shiro eventually learns about Keith’s thirst twitter.**  
>  It’s gotten a lot less use since Keith got access to the real deal, but any time he and Shiro have to be apart for even one (1) day, he’s likely to lapse into telling the void how much he wants Shiro’s thighs around him.
> 
> It happens when Shiro returns home early from a speaking engagement and sees a picture of himself on Keith's open laptop. He thinks it's cute that Keith was reading an article or something about him, but upon closer look it's a twitter filled mid-tackle ass shots and thirst tweets that bring a blush to Shiro's cheeks. 
> 
> Keith emerges from the bathroom just in time to see Shiro staring at the screen, metal hand over his mouth; he freezes in the middle of toweling off his hair, too shocked to do anything but emit a thin, wavering groan. Absolutely mortified, Keith hides his face in his hands and starts stammering apologies. It's only when Shiro folds him into a hug, laughing softly in confusion and murmuring assurances that it's okay, that Keith unclenches.
> 
> "Is that really your twitter? About me?"
> 
> Keith has to sit and explain himself while Shiro scrolls further and further down the page, his grin growing wider while Keith watches through his fingers.
> 
> There are questions like, "Babe, you were this horny for me?" and "What made you choose the handle ‘smothermeshiro?’"
> 
> And Keith is relieved that Shiro doesn't mind in the slightest, apparently only interested in soaking up enough material to tease his boyfriend about for the next decade.
> 
> "I'm sorry for not telling you before," Keith mumbles into Shiro's shoulder, his face still burning. "It was hard not having you around. I missed you and I had all these feelings and this was how I vented all that... energy."
> 
> Shiro stops scrolling, sympathetic even as he fights a smile and resists the urge to tease Keith about exactly what kind of ""energy"" he was channeling. He flips the laptop shut and tugs Keith into his lap. "Well, I think it's cute, so don't be too embarrassed. Do you want me to make a thirst twitter about you to even the score? I've got years' worth of material stored up here," he admits, a steely finger tapping his temple.
> 
> **III. Keith and Shiro eventually adopt Kosmo.**
> 
> Keith returns from a run in the nearby woods with a lost puppy that Shiro is half-convinced is part wolf or... something. It obeys Keith with zero training and stares at Shiro with eyes that almost seem to know what he’s thinking.
> 
> But Kosmo also eats from the trash and barks at his own reflection sometimes, so maybe he’s just a regular dog after all. He becomes their regular jogging companion and a team mascot, dressed up in a jersey of his own for game nights spent over at Matt and Pidge’s place.
> 
> **UNNECESSARY ADJACENT THREADS**  
> [some Eyeshield 21 inspiration!!](https://twitter.com/neyasochi/status/1137138282813382662)  
> [some real life thirst inspiration](https://twitter.com/neyasochi/status/1170560391795159040)


End file.
